


Our Interpersonal Event Horizon

by arsons



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Post-Graduation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsons/pseuds/arsons
Summary: Momota Kaito has spent six hours trapped in a box at the bottom of the ocean while navigating gravity; he can spend six months trapped in a box with Ouma Kokichi while navigating adulthood.At least, he hopes he can.





	1. March I

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is a reference to the neutral buoyancy laboratory in houston which, according to his FTEs, kaito has already tackled. we support you, you aeronautics legend.

Maki’s arms are like zip-ties around his shoulders, thin and taut and constricting to the point of painful. From her vantage point on her toes, she’s able to pull him down and in until their faces are side by side and her cheekbone is against his temple. That’s when she breathes, quiet, warm against his ear: “Try not to kill him.”

Kaito laughs so forcefully that they both stumble backwards. His right foot slides out of his shoe, but Maki corrects their balance quickly enough to pull back and look at him. Her hands slide forward to his shoulders; it’s like being appraised by a strict parent.

“I’m serious,” she says, the smallest tinge of concern in her voice. Her eyes are almost soft. “Momota. I still think this is a stupid decision.”

“Ah,” Kaede says, finally cutting in, “Harumaki, it’s gonna be fine!” She steps forward to place her own hand on Maki’s shoulder. Kaito shoots Shuuichi a look when Maki and Kaede turn to each other; Shuuichi smiles sympathetically at their miniature chain of advice. "I know that Momota-kun really isn't gonna do anything stupid. Or, well, at least he won’t do anything _dangerously_ stupid."

Maki squints at her. "You're being naïve.”

Kaito laughs again. Neither Kaede nor Maki turn to look. He takes the opportunity to lean forward and slip his shoe back on, and before they can start debating his common sense, he wraps his arms around both of them.

"Harumaki, _you're_ being naïve if you think I'm gonna kill him," he assures. He pauses, then he adds, "And, uh, probably kind of ironic, too."

Maki and Kaede make opposite expressions. Kaede adjusts her arms in a similar fashion, keeping them trapped in their three-way hug.

Maki, just the slightest bit squished, protests, "He covered my belongings in _wax_."

Kaede smiles. "And that was a good enough reason to bloody his nose?"

"Yeah, yeah, I would've done the same," Kaito sighs, shrugging it off. It's half an attempt to take her side, but Maki looks to him sternly, and he bites his tongue. "But—hey, I wouldn't do the same now! I-I'm not trying to pay any extra hospital bills, or..."

"Momota-kun," Kaede says.

He sighs again, but it's more exasperated than calmed this time. "I'm not gonna fucking kill Ouma," he says. "Like, I didn't _not_ know what I agreed to—"

"You _agreed_  to this because he called you a pussy," Maki reminds him.

"Th-That's not it at all!" Kaito starts. "It's—look, I’ve said already that I needed someone else to pay half the rent, and—“

"And you went with a freak like that because he instigated you.”

Kaito frowns at her. "Look, is there even a point to debating this anymore? I'm not fucking changing it now—he's already got the keys and everything. He's probably fucking moved in already, too. And—don’t ask how, I offered the dude a ride, and he said he had his own ‘evil’ ways. So it's not like I can do anything. And yeah, it might be a weird as fuck six months, but it's nothing I can't handle!"

”...Evil ways?” Kaede echoes.

Maki rolls her eyes.

”Besides,” Kaito says. “I don’t want this being the last thing we talk about.”

Kaede shakes her head and squeezes both of them. Maki seems to relent; she sighs quietly and doesn’t move when Kaito and Kaede lean closer into her. They stand like that for a second, then all seem to start at once. Kaito lifts his head and makes eye contact with Shuuichi, standing some feet away from the circle, a small smile on his face. His haired is still damp and mussed from their little ordeal earlier in the day; Kaito had given them matching hairstyles with a wet towel, and he’s pleased to see it still cemented in place, even in the wind.

”Shuuichi!” he yells. “Are you waiting for a damn invitation or something?” He tugs Maki and Kaede with him to step back and make room. “Get in here!”

Shuuichi laughs very lightly and takes a step closer. “Momota-kun,” he says, “I didn’t want to interrupt your—“

Kaede and Kaito exchange a single glance and make the same decision to drag themselves, and Maki, by extension, towards him. Shuuichi laughs again; he stills until they’re both pulling him into the hug, despite Maki’s obviously growing discomfort.

They hold each other firmly in an uneven square-formation. It lasts about five, embarrassing seconds before Maki announces: “I can’t take this anymore.”

Kaito snorts and releases everyone. He watches Kaede undo her arms from around Maki and Shuuichi, and they all take a second to settle themselves together again. Right as Shuuichi is looking up, Kaito barrels into him for an individual hug; Shuuichi makes a surprised sound and waits with his arms trapped between their chests.

Kaito rests his face against the top of Shuuchi’s head. Though he knows it may have been a more appropriate statement for their previous, group hug, Kaito still breathes into Shuuichi’s hair, “I’m gonna miss you all _so_ fucking much.”

”Tsukuba is only a two hour trip!” Kaede inputs from over his shoulder. “I know it seems far now, but we’ll definitely be keeping in touch and visiting! So don’t even worry about it.”

Kaito hugs Shuuichi even tighter. Shuuichi finally rearranges his arms to wrap around Kaito’s back. They allow themselves a moment, then Kaito turns to Kaede with a lighthearted smile, wrapping Shuuichi under his arm in half a headlock.

”I’m not worrying, Kaede!” he assures. “Cause like you’ve said, we’ll always be friends, yeah? I’ll be thinking of you guys the whole time I’m out there!” He tightens his hold on Shuuichi and flashes him a smile, which gets returned. “And when I’m in Houston, alright? Oh, and when I’m in space, of course!”

”We get it,” Maki sighs, but her lips twist up in a reflexive smile. Her eyelids shut. “The great Luminary of the Stars can go on to conquer everything possible, but he’ll never leave behind his friends.”

”Damn right!” Kaito agrees. “And that goes for all of you, too! Kaede, when you’re out there doing piano recitals, and Shuuichi,” he tugs at him again, “when you’re out there doing your work as a private investigator—“

”Momota-kun,” Shuuichi interupts with a soft laugh. “You know I haven’t...”

Kaito and Kaede chime in to protest at the same time.

”Aw, come on, Saihara-kun! You wouldn’t have received any offers if they hadn’t known that you’re so valuable!”

”Yeah, chin up! You’re an awesome fucking detective, dude, and everyone can see it! Don’t start berating yourself now!”

”I-It’s not that!” Shuuichi insists, raising his hands defensively from under Kaito’s arm. “It’s just...” he pauses, “a lot to take in. If I accept the law firm offer, I’d have to quit working with my uncle, and... It’s a lot to consider.”

It’s an understandable complaint. Kaito nods, thoughtfully, and Kaede falls silent as well. They’re quiet for a couple seconds, then Kaito pulls at Shuuichi once more.

”You know what?” he says. “We’re gonna fuckin’ depress ourselves talking about the uncertainties. Like Kaede said, we shouldn’t worry about it! Things are gonna work themselves out, yeah?” He laughs. “They always do! So, come on. We’re all gonna be doing the things we love—let’s act more excited about it!”

”You seem excited enough for all of us,” Maki points out.

Kaito turns to her. “I am!” he confirms. “Like, I’m gonna be in full-time fucking training from now on! Of course I’m pumped! And in a couple years, I’ll be on the ISS!” His eyebrows go up. “Oh, and—in even more years after that, you guys’ll be up there, too!”

Shuuichi laughs. “Alright, Momota-kun. If you say so...”

“Hell yeah I say so,” Kaito smiles down at him. “And because I said it, it’s gonna come true! You can be the first detective in space, Shuuichi!” He turns to the girls. “And you guys can be the first concert pianist, and—!”

Maki shoots him a look.

Kaito smiles weakly. “Killer babysitter?” he tries.

“Very funny,” Maki responds.

Kaito winks, stalls for a second, then adds, “Oh! And, uh, Ouma can be the first cult leader in space once I kick his ass into orbit, I guess.”

Kaede rolls her eyes, and Maki’s expression goes from amused to disapproving in a flash. Shuuichi remains suspiciously quiet from under his arm.

”Oh, come on, guys!” Kaito laughs. “That was totally funny.” He receives no response again, and his free hand goes up to rub at the back of his head. “What, did I suddenly hit a tough crowd? You know I’m just joking.”

”You say it’s a joke, but I’m starting to think you’re serious,” Maki says, crossing her arms.

”Wh—No way I’m being serious, Harumaki!” Kaito protests. “You know me. The kid gets on my nerves, yeah, but not _that_ much.”

Kaede makes a humming noise. “Mhhh, Momota-kun, I don't know about that...”

Maki turns to Kaito with a raised eyebrow.

”Really!” he tries to defend. “Seriously, guys, that’s a total nonissue. I’ll be doing so much preparation—a-and he has his own shit going on, yeah? Whatever it is. Right?”

Kaede makes another humming noise. “Hmm... I'm not sure, actually. Ouma-kun didn’t talk about his future plans at graduation.”

Shuuichi finally chimes in, his voice strained from being wrapped in a headlock for so long. “H-He said something about moving up in the world, but...”

Kaede blinks a few times. “Did he actually?” she asks. “I don’t remember him talking.”

Kaito rolls his eyes. “Probably did. That sounds like him. He’s always saying crazy shit—that’s his whole gimmick. But—whatever, though, cause it doesn’t even matter! Like I said, he’s just some under-the-table roommate. We’ll hardly even see each other, so it’ll be fine.” He turns to all of them again. “And I’m more concerned about seeing you guys, anyway! We gotta keep in touch!”

”Ah, we will!” Kaede suddenly says, jumping back into their earlier discussion at the mention of it. “We _definitely_ will!”

“Kaede!” Kaito says, pointing at her. “I’ll be coming back in town for all your big shows, I swear! And,” he wrests at Shuuichi, “Shuuichi! I’ll be coming back in town to make sure you’re trusting yourself enough!”

”Thanks!” Shuuichi forces, now exerting himself to speak.

“And,” Kaito says, turning to Maki. “Harumaki! I’ll be coming back to make sure—“

”That I don’t kill anyone?” she fills in for him. The corner of her mouth quirks up.

Kaito returns the expression. “The opposite, maybe?”

She rolls her eyes. Apparently, his joke is lighthearted enough to not warrant another serious discussion of her future.

”Fuck it,” he says, pulling Shuuichi with him, who hardly has it in him to protest. “Come here! We're hugging again!”

Kaede and Maki both blink knowingly at each other, but they join after a moment.

”You’re getting way too sentimental,” Maki sighs, her head against Kaede’s shoulder. “You’re sure you’ll be okay out there?”

Kaito beams. “Hell yeah I will be! I’m fucking stoked for it. Tsukuba’s waiting for me!”

Kaede giggles lightly. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, Momota-kun. I know you’ll do fantastically during training.”

”Y,” Shuuichi breathes, still a victim of his permanent hug. “Y...Yeah, M-Momota...!”

Kaito releases him at once. “Oh, fuck!” he shouts. “Shuuichi, I didn’t mean to strangle you. My bad!”

Shuuichi takes a deep breath as he resurfaces, leaning his head in with the rest of them. “I-It’s fine!” he assures. “J-Just a little...uncomfortable, for a bit...”

”You’re fine,” Maki says, bumping shoulders with him. Shuuichi returns the gesture awkwardly.

Kaito tightens his grip around their shoulders again, holding the four of them together for the last time for a while—or, some weeks, at least. It’s bittersweet; he has to lose something he loves to pursue something else that’s equally important to him, but it's been long enough that he's come to terms with it. It's life, and besides that, Kaede is right—it's not like they can't see each other occasionally or talk any days. It's what he wants, and it's what all of them want, and he's fucking excited for it. It's his one small step that'll bolster his ability to help mankind, so if he has to make a small sacrifice to do it? That's perfectly fine. And he's fine with it.

”Harumaki and I are gonna get going, then,” Kaede says a moment after they’ve unwound themselves. Maki brushes her hair from her face, and Kaede turns to Shuuichi. “Saihara-kun? Are you coming?”

”Um,” Shuuichi starts, then glances over at Kaito, who gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up. “I’m...going to stay here for a bit, actually,” he decides. “If that’s okay, Momota-kun. I wanted to talk to you.”

”Course you can,” Kaito smiles. He takes a step closer to smack him on the back. “We need guy time, anyway. Kaede and Harumaki totally crashed our boys’ day!”

”You’re not funny,” Maki says. She glances at her feet. “But I guess I will miss it.”

”Means the world to me, Harumaki,” Kaito tells her. He remembers a time, way back when, when Maki couldn’t express herself as she just did; when she refused to talk about her own emotions like a person. It’s what drives him to smile even brighter at her, happy to hear her say it. “I’ll miss your piss-poor humor, too!”

Maki’s head shoots up. Okay—too far, he realizes, and fixes her with an awkward shrug and grimace instead.

”That was just another bad joke,” Kaede soothes with a hand on her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “Way to go, Momota-kun. I’ll miss playing mediator for when you say things like that.”

”It’s been really appreciated,” Shuuichi chimes in, and his genuine words are met with a scoff from Kaito and a smile from Kaede. Her and Maki take a step down from the porch, shoulder to shoulder, and make their way to the front yard.

”Don’t forget!” Kaede yells, walking backwards. “We’ll always be a call away, Momota-kun! Remember to reach out!”

”I will!” Kaito yells back, raising an arm to wave vigorously at them. “I couldn’t forget my two most talented classmates!”

Maki and Kaede shake their heads in amusement—or exasperation, which Kaito knows is a possibility—and continue down the road. Him and Shuuichi remain on the porch, waving goodbye as Maki and Kaede are eventually engulfed in the fog of dusk, until they’re too far away to make out any longer. Something tightens in Kaito’s chest at that; before he can properly react to it, Shuuichi steps back inside to stand on the carpet. Kaito blinks, then follows, shutting the door behind them.

Shuuichi opens his mouth immediately, but Kaito quickly reaches out to ruffle part of his hair.

”Hey, Shuuichi?” Kaito says. “If you’re about to ask me to stay because you want your hair done like this all the time, I’m gonna have to hit you with a ‘tough luck’ on it.”

Shuuichi pauses and makes a face at him, both puzzled and amused. He shakes his head and swats Kaito’s hand away from him, gently. “You know?” he says. “I’m actually good.”

“Are you really?” Kaito presses with a smirk. “I can film my routine if you want it, man! Just say the word!”

Shuuichi snorts. “Really. I’m good.” He smiles for a second more, but his expression quickly morphs into a somber neutral. Kaito is almost taken aback by the sudden seriousness; Shuuichi sets a hand on his shoulder, and it reminds him of Maki, but less threatening.

“...You about to lecture me?” Kaito teases, and he sets his hand over Shuuichi’s. “In case you forgot, dude, Harumaki already did that.”

Shuuichi sighs. “Momota-kun,” he starts, ignoring Kaito’s last statement. “I wanted to make sure that you’re doing okay.”

Kaito screws his face up at him. “Huh?”

”I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Shuuichi repeats, still staring at him. “I know we’ve been joking about it for most of the day, but you’ve seemed a little sad since—“

”Sad?” Kaito interrupts, squeezing Shuuichi’s hand. “Hey, man, of course I’m sad about not having you guys around every day to liven things up! But I'm even more excited!”

Shuuichi smiles at that, but he keeps talking. “That’s...not exactly what I meant, Momota-kun. Are you sure you’re not nervous about moving away from everyone? I know how important your work is to you, but...”

This is sounding a bit ridiculous, Kaito decides. He laughs again, loudly, and pulls Shuuichi’s hand down off of him. He pokes him in the chest with both their index fingers.

”Hey, Shuuichi, you don’t gotta worry about me, alright? You know exactly who you’re dealing with!”

”I do,” Shuuichi tells him. He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “But that’s why I want to make sure everything is okay.”

Kaito blinks at him. He waits for a few seconds as the gears turn in his head, and Shuuichi doesn’t lighten up in the meantime. He’s not sure what brought this on, and it’s also weirdly vague; Shuuichi must be dancing around what he really wants to say. Which only means...

Kaito’s lips curve up into a smile. ”Hey, I get it, man,” he says. He smashes a fist into his palm, and Shuuichi takes a surprised step back. “You can just come out and say it! You’re scared I’m gonna forget about you, huh?”

Shuuichi tilts his head a bit. “What?” he says, blinking rapidly. “Ah, not exactly, Momota-kun!”

”Ha, Shuuichi!” Kaito laughs over his voice. “You can be honest about this kind of stuff, okay? No way you’re gonna get left behind! Like,” Kaito waves his hand dismissively, “yeah, yeah, I’m gonna make a whole buncha others friends while I’m out and away, but none of them are ever gonna replace my number one sidekick,” he smiles. “You hear me?”

Shuuichi says nothing as Kaito beams at him. When Kaito smacks him affectionately, it finally seems to bring him to his senses; he returns a strained smile.

“If,” he says, “if...you say so, Momota-kun, then I’ll take your word. But I want you to remember that you can call me whenever.”

”Sure thing,” Kaito assures him with a wink. “Don’t even worry about it!”

Kaito spins on his heel before Shuuichi can continue asking him odd questions. He heads back deeper into the house, and after a second, he hears Shuuichi follow after him as well. When he reaches the living room, he throws himself into the couch with his limbs spread out, and Shuuichi takes a tentative seat next to him, careful not to disturb any arm or leg.

Kaito sighs exaggeratedly. Shuuichi glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Kaito catches it and raises an eyebrow, as if prompting him to speak.

”One other thing,” Shuuichi starts again. “On your birthday—“

Kaito snaps back up in a heartbeat. ”Oh, shit!” he says. “Damn. I almost forgot about that. Uh, well, that’ll suck, but, like, it happens, right? I’ll buy myself a cake or something. Maybe try and chill out. And I’m sure everyone else’ll remember when I’m at training! Plus, maybe we could have a group call?”

Shuuichi looks caught off guard at how rapidly he speaks, but he recovers quickly. “That’s a good idea,” he agrees, then leans back into the cushion. Kaito follows suit and tries to relax again. “I’m sorry that we can’t all come out so soon, but—“

”Aw, Shuuichi!” Kaito says, and leans up to push at his shoulder. He collapses back again. “Cheer up! I know you’re gonna miss me, but you’re acting a little overboard.”

”Am I?” Shuuichi frowns.

Kaito blows his bangs out of his eyes, and he spares a glance at Shuuichi’s still-frizzy hair. It was a spontaneous job, but he still thinks it’s funny that they match. He smiles involuntarily; he loves all his friends infinitely, yeah, but he thinks it’ll be Shuuichi who he misses the most. They go farther back than anyone; they’ve been friends since they met each other. Not having that grounding presence at his side will be...new. He can give Shuuichi’s misplaced reasoning that one, at least: it’ll be an odd period of adjustment to not have him by his side every day.

Shuuichi must catch the lapse in conversation. He glances over at Kaito as well and smiles back.

”Momota-kun,” he says. “You _are_ right that I’ll miss you, but—“

“Back at ya, bro!"

Shuuichi stifles a laugh. “But you think you’ll be fine, then? A year in total isn’t something to brush off.”

Kaito huffs at him. “Of course, Shuuichi! We’ve been over this. You should be worrying about yourself, instead!”

“...Should I?” Shuuichi frowns. It’s more amused this time than anything, but it drops abruptly as he says, “And—And you will be fine with Ouma-kun too, right?”

Kaito groans and throws his head back. “Haven’t we been over that one too, man?”

”We have,” Shuuichi admits, “but Akamatsu-san was right—you two have never had...the most civil relationship, if you know what I mean. I just don’t want you two to fight out there.”

Kaito thinks about that. “Ouma’s a little freak,” he decides after a moment. “But it’s still a nonissue. Him and I’ll see each off and on for six months, maybe, and then we’ll never see each other again. _And_ I’m getting money out of him, so six months is a pretty low price to pay. I’m fine with it, really.”

Shuuichi doesn’t answer, and Kaito sits up again to tug at him.

”Hey!” he says. “Shuuichi, you believe me, right? I swear, I’m not gonna let him do anything to fuck with my training!”

”I believe you!” Shuuichi relents when Kaito comes close to throttling his shoulder. “I-If that’s what you want, Momota-kun, then I hope it’s what you get.”

Kaito rolls his eyes. He keeps forgetting about his living situation. “The less we see each other, the better. It’ll—it’ll be fine, though, either way. If he starts acting up, I’ll set him straight as soon as I can!”

”That’s what Harukawa-san was worried about,” Shuuichi sighs.

He sits back a bit. Kaito tosses a leg over him, and then they both breathe a laugh at it in perfect sync.

”I know. Thanks for going all Harumaki on me, man, but I can take care of myself. Jeez, and like I said, if you keep worrying about me, you won’t have any time to think about yourself!”

”I worry about you because we’re friends!” Shuuichi reminds him, his voice slightly high in protest. “Of course I trust what you say, but I ask because I want the best for you.”

Kaito thinks on that for a second. Then he looks at Shuuichi and says, “That’s pretty damn touching, man. You’re just caring about me the wrong way. Now—we’ve fussed way more than we needed to! Are we gonna end this by airing concerns, or are we gonna get over it and hug again!?”

“Wh—M-Momota-kun!” Shuuichi stumbles, getting pulled in to a headlock for the second time that night.

Kaito’s grandparents come home to him and Shuuichi laughing on the couch, their hair a mess from what probably ended up being a little too much roughhousing. It’s simple; it’s a nice sendoff for Shuuichi, who heads the same direction Kaede and Maki had gone not a half hour prior, his hair frizzier than Kaito had ever seen, even including the days of his nonstop hat wearing. He laughs at it when Shuuichi waves at him from down the road. It doesn’t take long for him to disappear past the houses, quicker than Maki and Kaede had in the dim lighting of the set sun. Kaito swallows hard and takes a moment to collect himself before walking back inside; though he knows it won’t be the last time he ever sees them, watching his friends fading from his sight still riles something emotional inside him. He lets it linger just long enough to burn, then forces it down with a hand on the door.

He has a nice dinner with his grandparents. He loves them just as much, and saying goodnight is another reminder of everything he’s leaving behind. When he eventually settles in to his bed, he glances around at his semi-empty room. Most of his belongings are packed in the car or away, and it’s another small wound of something uncanny. This is his last night in his room, but it’s not _really_ his room; it’s a void of what his room used to be, gutted and stripped of every emotional attachment. That almost makes him feel better—the emotional attachments will be with him when he’s gone. Still, though, this area holds memories that aren’t physical as well.

God, he's going to miss his friends. He's known that for a while, but actually saying goodbye to them was something else. He's been with Kaede, Maki, and Shuuichi just about every day for the past three years, and he's been watching them grow individually and together. It's made him feel proud and happy for everyone; when him and Shuuichi first met, the boy had barely spoken, and Maki had been just as reserved, so him and Kaede had worked to get them out of their shells, and now he won’t be around to keep checking their progress, and...

Fuck. What the fuck? He rubs at his eyes. He’s getting too sentimental—Maki was right. It’s dumb; tomorrow is the first day of his new, adult life. So he needs to be excited, not upset. He takes slow, deep breaths until he feels settled enough, and then he thinks about the future.

Work. Space. Training. Adulthood. Space. Adventure. New people. _Space_.

If there’s one thing that burns as passionately as his love for his friends and family within him, it’s _space_. God, forget being sad about leaving anything behind—he’d gladly depart at any notice just to be out past the Earth, suspended within the cosmos. His attachments here aren’t dire enough that he’d ever consider giving his dream up, and that _does_ make him feel better. It’s his dream. He’s chasing his dream tomorrow, and— _fuck_. Fuck, that’s emotional in a good way; that’s emotional in the _best_ way. Emotional enough to keep him awake under his eyelids, existing at a frequency just too high to calm himself down. He’ll be permanently training to go to  _space_ tomorrow. Everything for the next year of his life will revolve around him being able to see the stars. It’s—it’s not bittersweet, it’s just fucking amazing. He dwells for what feels like forever, unable to sleep in his state, until his phone lights up and buzzes from beside him.

Kaito sits up. His phone buzzes again. He squints in confusion and reaches for it.

 **Ouma [2:03 AM]** : aaaaaaa momota chaaan!

 **Ouma [2:03 AM]** : i’m here at our new little abode 2gether and it’s suuuuuper scary!!!!!!! there’s this creepy little box thing in the corner that keeps.. hissing at me..... Aa.... ᕕ(╯°□°)ᕗ

"What the fuck,” Kaito says aloud. Followed by, “Oh.”

Oh.

Right. Of course.

He’d forgotten about Ouma.

 **Ouma [2:05 AM]** : found this big stick. gonna hit it!!!! gonna poke it! gonna instigate something SPOOKY hehehe （＾∀＾）ゞ

 **Ouma [2:06 AM]** : uuuuUuuuh GUESS WHAT LOL ITS ALIVE

 **Ouma [2:06 AM]** : ASRLREJEGEHDJAAA MOMOTA  HAAAAN  COME SAVE MEE

 **Ouma [2:06 AM]** : AA PLEAEE ITS KILLING ME AAAA MOMOTA CHAN IM GONNA DIE

 **Ouma [2:06 AM]** : FBDLAHSBFKD

 **Ouma [2:07 AM]** : GLGPGJGURHRNMG

 **Ouma [2:09 AM]** : FBjkhhkkbnnjdh

 **Ouma [2:10 AM]** : tell ..  My secret organization.. I

When Kaito finally falls asleep that night, instead of feeling nostalgic or excited or anything he had been experiencing prior, he just finds that he is very, _very_ pissed off.

-

Kokichi upturns an entire liter of fake blood onto the floor.

It’s none of that cheap, runny, store-bought shit either—it’s _real deal_ fake blood. Handmade, perfected, _viscous_ blood, á la syrup and detergent and food coloring. He has this recipe perfected because it’s the most realistic; sure, the detergent aspect of it makes it dangerous for recreational use, but when have labels ever stopped him before, right? No reason to start abiding by them _now_. He holds the bowl upside down for an extra minute to let the clumps drip out, slowly but surely, then returns to the kitchen to set it on the counter. _His_ counter. He’s never had his own counter before.

Okay, well, maybe it’s not _fully_ his counter, but it’s close enough. It’s 50% his counter, and the most he's ever owned of a counter before was probably, like, 5%, so half of one is an improvement. The other half in this case belongs to a certain dumbass who’ll be showing his face sometime tomorrow. That hardly even matters, though. Neither does his name not being on the lease, because Dumbass’s name isn’t on it either, technically—it’s his parent’s name or whoever. And, on top of all that: it’s the _lease_. A legally binding contract. Legally binding contracts don’t mean anything to him.

Neither do the feelings of some total idiot or his desire to share, or play fair, or whatever little prerecorded friendship rant he might spew out if Kokichi brings it up. So, you know what? Kokichi decides that it _is_ his counter, and he’s not about to drip his little horror concoction all over it. That’s for the floor.

He steps back into his living room and gets straight to work, spreading the blood all around the wood flooring with his bare foot, his pant leg rolled up to his knee to avoid the splatter. He works until it leads in thick, ropy trails from the A/C unit to the hallway, all the way down to the single, corner bedroom. It trails off at the end; it’s a nice touch, Kokichi thinks. Anyone with a brain who sees this scene can come to a conclusion about what happened.

It’s why he makes it so obvious, actually. Because he’s dealing with someone without a brain. But even Momota can’t be dumb enough to miss the story it tells.

When Kokichi is done fabricating his crime scene, he braces his hands along the wall and hops backward to the bathroom to clean the syrupdetergentcoloring off of him. He flips the light switch on, revealing the room and the towel he'd tossed in there, and he hums at it; it’s on the smaller side, but the whole apartment is, really. Maybe it’s not the nicest place in the world, but it’s still a place to live, so he won’t complain about it. He hops again to the bathtub and puts his foot in it, rearranging himself on the ledge to sit and clean.

There’s two plain knobs above the spout. He twists one, waits quietly as the water audibly rushes up, then screams when it bursts out of the shower head. He scrambles to divert units, and by the time the water is pouring from the bath nozzle instead, his pants and hair are already dripping.

Okay, it's not like he wasn't expecting a learning curve, but that one was just stupid. He grimaces as he gets to work cleaning the blood off of himself, and by the time he's done, the bottom of the tub is stained the same red that's painting the floor of the apartment. He lets the water run as he dries himself off, then shuts it off when it looks good enough. Not perfect, but, uh. Whatever. That's life.

Kokichi retraces his steps back into the living room to take a look at his work. It does look believable; the fake blood is convincing enough as it is, and when it dries in the morning, it'll look even better. He's satisfied with the outcome, so that's when he recovers his phone from the kitchen to rapid-fire off some...incriminating, text messages.

Momota doesn’t respond, but he _does_ read all of them. Kokichi isn’t sure if he’s unaware of the receipts being on, or if he’s deliberately making a statement by not making one at all. Seems petty. Doesn’t seem like something he’d do. Kokichi shrugs to himself—it doesn’t matter if he gets a message back. It only matters that Momota has read them. And he has. And the setup will be waiting.

Kokichi approaches the kitchen window and presses his face up against the glass, trying to see out into the dark past his own reflection made by the overhead light. The street below them is empty, devoid of any life—save for a single streetlight on the opposite side of the road, if it can be counted. He sighs. Tsukuba is...new. It reminds him of an old person town—or, at least, their section of it does. The fact that no one has been around since he got here seems to support that; wouldn’t younger people have been awake to hear someone walking around outside? It’s an apartment building—it’s not like the walls are made for privacy. Or, maybe everyone here just sleeps like the dead. Maybe everyone here really _is_ dead.

That’d be kind of funny, he thinks. Momota would have something else to freak out about beside Kokichi’s faux murder. Kokichi tries to imagine Momota sprinting to get a neighbor, and a skeleton answering the door. He smiles at the image.

The living room has a sliding glass door against the back wall that leads to a balcony. The third floor seems like the ideal spot for one, Kokichi thinks. He’s glad they ended up here instead of, like, the first floor. No point in having one then. He steps outside into the chilly air and folds his arms over the ledge, right near the fire escape platform that leads down the building. It’s cold out, but it’s still nice. He glances all around him to check out the neighbors’ sides; all of their blinds are drawn, just as he’d suspected. Standing in the middle of this new place, no one else awake to disturb him, Kokichi feels strange and solemn. Like he could be the only person left in the world. Him and Momota, on the other side of his phone.

He frowns, then walks back inside.

When he opens the weather app on his phone, his screen is assaulted by demands that he activate his location services. He scoffs. As if he’d be doing that right now. He ignores the notifications and manually inputs Tsukuba to be told that it’s 13° outside, but that the temperatures will be increasing during the day and throughout the week. That’s good to know. He doesn’t have many clothes to keep him warm, anyway; he doesn’t have many clothes in general.

Kokichi riffles through his duffel bag of belongings that he’d dropped near the door. Maybe, he thinks, going through everything, that he doesn’t own much, but at least he owns things that are important to him. He smiles and pushes aside his masks to find his toiletries at the bottom: a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and soap. He’s been banking on Momota to bring more, and if not? He’ll just make his second purchases in the city tomorrow to go with his laundry detergent, food coloring, and syrup. And on that note, at least he knows where to buy something at least somewhat nearby. The convenience store had been dingy, and the older man behind the counter hadn’t talked to him— _boring_ —but the closest stores to their apartment building had only been...repair shops. Or auto parts shops. Lots of tires. Weird. Maybe that’s what old people like.

After changing out of his damp pants, he makes his way back to the bathroom, careful to step over and around all traces of blood now drying to the floor. When he's brushing his teeth, he opens some empty cabinets and leafs through, not really expecting to find anything, but just to observe. There's some sort of pamphlet under the sink that's either about the purchase of it or—instructions? Are people that dumb?—and Kokichi tosses it aside. In his opinion, the storage seems to be pretty decent. Once he's done, he roams back out to the hallway, where there's a single closet and, of course, the bedroom. Kokichi frowns at that for his second time since arriving. If him and Momota have to be roommates in the truest sense of the word, then he'll deal. He looks on the bright side: it'll be a great opportunity to glue the guy to his pillowcase every day. He adds glue to his mental shopping list, just in case.

Kokichi retreats into the bedroom soon after, where he’ll stay for both night and morning. Despite everything, he’s actually kind of excited for it. It, of course, being the idea of Momota finding his new home the scene of a violent crime. If he has to live with an idiot for six months, then he has be looking to find ways to improve his quality of life. And this is just the first of them! What a beautiful and typical way to kick off their official post-Hope’s Peak life together.

And to think Momota had wanted to be rid of him the instant they graduated. Kokichi sighs, staring at the ceiling.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t felt the same. He decides that tomorrow, when he sees Momota, he’ll have to do just that.

Kokichi sleeps peacefully that night, and when he dreams of skeleton neighbors and lonely, murderous A/C units, his sleeping form almost manages to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's what's fun: i've never written a comprehensive, multi-chapter story before, so i'm glad to be challenging myself! if you're here for the ride, then i'm glad to have people sticking around to watch me try and figure this out, haha. i've got the majority of the story planned, but i guess i'll be seeing how it'll span in terms of chapters. 13 is tentative, but i suppose it’ll be roughly around there. (and god, i hope this note doesn't age poorly.) i also plan to try and finish this by the end of the summer! (i hope that doesn't age poorly, either!)
> 
> so, if you've gotten this far: thanks for reading! i wanted to mention that i am also on tumblr now (@/arsons), and occasionally have been posting short exercises/requests. still can't believe i got booted from twitter for not verifying my email... lol, i'll probably try and fix that soon, too. thanks again; hoping to meet all my goals here as best as possible :-)


	2. April I

Kaito unlocks the door to his apartment for the first time at 7:04 AM on a Sunday morning, and he is greeted by a weirdly and sickeningly sweet smell. He frowns. His mind doesn’t profile it instantly, which he immediately knows is strange—because what the hell would’ve happened to the place since the last time he’d visited?—but then he pushes the door all the way open and is greeted by something else entirely.

He drops the handle of the luggage he’d been holding. It topples forward to the ground and crashes loudly. His voice is even louder as he states, clear and blunt: “What the fuck?”

And then, louder again and with far more emotion: “What the _fuck!?_ ”

There’s a sizable trail of blood drawn across the floor, and it’s a striking red, too vibrant, like nothing like he’s ever seen before—or smelled before, on that note. Is that— _soap_ , he smells mixed in there with it? His mind races; did someone haphazardly try to clean everything up or something? Did—? What the _fuck_ , why is there so much blood in the first place—? Did someone—?

”Ouma,” Kaito says, and he hasn’t realized he’s spoken aloud until the name reverberates back to him. His mind is failing to process what he’s stumbled into; he can feel all his reactions, heavy, delayed like he's experiencing them in slow motion. “Ouma!” he yells. “Are—oh, God, _what_ the fuck? _Ouma!_ ”

_Fuck_ , Kaito hears over the pounding of his heart in his ears. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,_ the fucking kid has been here for _five_ fucking hours and has already gotten murdered or some shit, or at least murdered someone himself, how the fuck did he manage to do that _already_ , and Kaito is finally moving his legs, stepping shakily into the entryway to see that the blood leads up the hallway and to a single door—the bedroom door, he recalls in his panic, someone _dragged_ their bleeding frame down the hall _into the fucking bedroom_ , and—and he follows it to its end, hardly supporting himself, still wavering, now nearly panting in a full state of unreality, to swing the door open and reveal: Ouma, facedown in front of him, his limbs spread and twisted exaggeratedly on the floor like some clichéd chalk outline off a crime thriller.

Kaito screams.

And screams.

Then Ouma screams, too.

Kaito screams louder when Ouma starts screaming, then grabs his chest and staggers backwards into the hallway again. Ouma sits up on his knees and is frantically waving his arms when Kaito’s legs give out; his back slides along the wall until he hits the ground, and that’s when they both finally, within seconds of each other, stop screaming altogether.

Kaito’s heartbeat is fast and prominent under his hand, palpable even through the fabric of his shirt. Ouma is fishing something out of his pocket. Kaito is still reeling; he watches Ouma’s movements blindly, and he doesn’t even flinch when the kid points what looks to be cardboard in his direction, rips a string, and explodes a handful of confetti all over him.

”Happy housewarming, Momota-chan!” Ouma cheers. “I’ve been _dying_ for you to show up all morning!”

Kaito stares at him, slack-jawed.

Ouma’s face is split in a cheerful, menacing grin. He looks like a poorly-casted serial killer who just hopped the prison fence in—a crime thriller, yeah, but a shitty one, and—and Kaito isn’t sure if he’s actually _on one or not_ at this point, because this has to be a fucking joke, or something. It has to be. Not a fucking joke in the sense of being a prank—which this _was_ , apparently, if something this fucked up can be considered that—but a fucking joke in the sense that, like, Ouma can’t actually be this fucking crazy.

”Oh, you can’t really think that  _this_ was that bad,” Ouma pouts at him, leaning back to cross his arms. “I was so prepared to take the word ‘housewarming’ literally! The price of the kindling is the only thing that impeded my arson!”

Kaito must’ve spoken aloud. He missed that one, too. He tries again, this time of his own accord, as his hands find the wall behind him.

” _You_ ,” he breathes, and he hears his voice drop involuntarily at his first real attempt to form words, “are fucking _crazy_.”

”I thought _I_ ,” Ouma says, then garnishes his next words with air quotes, “ _‘couldn’t actually’_ be this crazy, Momota-chan. Are you flip-flopping on me? No, I know you wouldn’t! Most everything you say is contradictory, but in just subtle enough of a way that you can deny it! Making two opposite claims outright is a pretty bold choice, so yes, I _will_ assume it was an accident.” Ouma clicks his tongue and makes—some sort of face at Momota. A smug one? He looks like he’s in pain. “So, which one is it? Am I crazy or not?”

”I am going to fucking _throttle_ you,” Kaito answers, clawing his way back to his feet.

Ouma’s eyebrows go up at that, and he jumps to his feet as well. “Ah!” he gasps, taking a step back farther into the bedroom. He raises his hands defensively. “Momota-chan! Please, have mercy! I was only resurrected a minute ago; I can’t die again!”

Kaito freezes in the doorframe; his legs are still mildly unsteady from the fucking gallons of adrenaline that must’ve flooded his bloodstream. He holds himself there with a hand, then uses the other to point at Ouma.

”What the _fuck_ is the matter with you!?”

Ouma recoils. ”I have ADHD!” he claims, raising his hands even higher in innocence.

Kaito squints at him. That’s—what? That’s the fucking first he’s ever heard of that, and even if it’s not a lie, which is unlikely, it’s completely irrelevant to the fact that he _staged a fucking murder_ —

“And rheumatoid arthritis!” Ouma continues, now counting off on his fingers. “And lupus, and the black lung, and the bubonic plague, and—!”

”My grandparents are fucking here!” Kaito interrupts, still pointing at him. “They’re on their fucking way up to help me move shit! And you covered—“ Kaito interrupts himself again as he suddenly realizes something, his eyes scanning the room. “Did... Did you sleep on the fucking _floor?_ ”

Ouma, who actually seemed to have been listening at the mention of his grandparents, frowns at his tangent. “Yeah?” he says. “And? You’ve never slept on a floor before?”

Kaito blinks, hard. “ _No?_ ” That—he would write that off as a lie, too, but there really is nothing in the fucking apartment in general. What the hell?

“Well, boohoo!” Ouma chimes, rolling his eyes. “So what! Momota-chan is a little wimp—“

”Don’t fucking call me—“

”—who gets his backbone from sleeping on mattresses, apparently. Now get back to the part about your grandparents, okay?”

”A—what?” Kaito stops. “You...why?”

”Why what? Why I wanna hear about your grandparents? Why wouldn’t I?”

”Why _would_ you? They’re—all I wanted to say was that they’re gonna fucking walk into the mess you made through this place! Didn’t you think about that?”

Ouma frowns at him. “No,” he offers. “Thought for sure your family would want to be rid of you as soon as possible. How was I supposed to know you were bringing members of the Momota clan?”

You know, Kaito thinks, they haven’t even fucking said hello to each other. There’s been no actual greetings. Not that he necessarily needs one, but fucking hell; he expected to see Ouma and for the two of them to maybe say hello, and for the kid to say some dumb shit probably, and then that they would ignore each other for the rest of their six months together. This is literally the first time they’ve seen each other since graduation. Everything in the past five minutes has happened so fucking fast; it’s too fucking much for—what, an early Sunday morning? Kaito puts a hand against his face and just _groans,_ the sound thick and coming straight from the core of him.

Ouma sniffs. “You about done with that?”

”Hi,” Kaito settles on, dragging his hand down his face and glaring across the room at Ouma. God, the fight has drained out of him at this point; he is just so fucking _tired_. “Since you couldn’t fucking say hi like a normal goddamn person does, I’ll say it first. _Hi_.”

Ouma’s eyes light up a little bit. “ _Buongiorno_ , roommate!” He takes a precise bow, lithe and practiced like a dancer, and when he comes back up, he smirks at Kaito through the sunlight streaming in behind him. “I hope you’ve had a good morning.”

Kaito looks at him. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “Is the blood made of soap."

He doesn’t quite ask it. He’s not sure if he really wants the answer.

Ouma smiles. “Yeah. It is, Momota-chan. Worse, actually—laundry detergent.”

”Fuck,” Kaito says. His face is in his hands again. “Fuck, man. You _know_ that’s gonna stain.”

Kaito can see Ouma from between his fingers; his smile stretches impossibly wider, and he falls into some rendition of jazz hands as he trills his words. “Well, it’s not like we needed that security deposit, anyway!” Before Kaito can respond, Ouma's arms drop back down, and his expression shifts into a more subdued one. "I've killed enough time already, though—oh, and myself—so now I gotta skedaddle."

His words don’t quite register at first. Kaito takes a sharp inhale and releases it as he thinks them over. Finally, he repeats back, "You gotta _what?_ "

Ouma ignores him in favor of physically shouldering past him. It happens so—well, plainly, that Kaito doesn't even question or react to it; another effect of his still-suspended reflexes, apparently. He turns to watch Ouma walk down the hallway, his back slanted against the wall to avoid the floor mess. It's only when he's out of sight that Kaito literally and awkwardly follows his footsteps, and when he reaches the living room, Ouma is near the door, zipping up a duffel bag.

Has that been there long? Kaito must have missed it in his shock. Ouma shoots him a look from over his shoulder.

"You better not touch my belongings, Momota-chan!" he calls. "If you do, I'll file a police report, and then JAXA will be out of their little pet project, and the country will fall apart! Do you want that?”

Kaito shakes his head. "The hell are you doing?"

"Taking _off_ ," Ouma stresses. "If I have to see another Momota today, I might barf, and that'll be even harder to clean up from the floor."

"You're..." Kaito pauses to actually consider it. "Avoiding my family?"

"No," Ouma refutes quickly, glaring over at him. "Of course not! I'm just trying to make your life a little easier. So don't complain about it when I actually help out!" When he's done with his bag, he rises back upright and kicks it farther into the corner with his foot. Kaito blinks as Ouma saunters across the room again, his hands behind his head, until he reaches the sliding glass door. He turns to Kaito as he pauses over the lock.

"Do you have a preference?" he says.

Kaito screws his face up. "What?"

" _A_ _preference_ ," Ouma repeats, drawling the words out. "Do you have one, or should I pick it myself?"

Kaito stares at him. Ouma stares back. He blinks. "I...” he falters, “have no fucking clue what you're talking about.”

Ouma sighs, shaking his head and ruffling his hair in the process. "Well, fine. I can pick.  _Adieu_ , _mein partner_ ," he lilts, then clicks the lock open. He slides the door down its track, steps out onto the balcony, and all Kaito finds he can do is stand there as Ouma swings himself onto the fire escape ladder, slides down the rungs, then vanishes against the side of the building, all while wearing a straitjacket and polka-dotted sweatpants.

That’s...Ouma.

There goes Ouma. His classmate. No—his roommate, now. Loosely speaking. Who just leapt out a fire escape after pretending to be murdered. Dressed like...that.

What the fuck.

Kaito can’t wrap his head around it. He hasn’t been able to wrap his head around much since walking in. He stares at the open door.

And from the open door behind him, he hears another familiar voice, muffled and confused. "Kaito? Kaito, are you—"

His grandmother's words hitch into a gasp as she spots the scene around her. Kaito turns in her direction, his face blank, as she stares on in horror. Like himself, her hand goes to her heart immediately; the luggage she'd been pulling topples forward as her eyes roam over the bloodied floor, the open balcony, and the flakes of confetti stuck to her grandson’s hair and clothes. Their gazes meet a moment later.

"Baasan," Kaito says, raising his eyebrows at her. "Did we leave the paper towels in the car?"

-

Kokichi had gotten his end of their bargain via eavesdropping.

Actually, it shouldn't even count as eavesdropping—Momota had been far too loud not only for the week prior, but for about as long as Kokichi had known him. That’s just who he was: a loud bastard who projected his voice to everyone. It was impossible to _not_ hear him. So when he’d started yelling on a Monday morning about not having enough money to live alone for six months, Kokichi had listened, mulled over his words for exactly a week, then propositioned him on the following Monday morning.

”Momota-chan,” he’d greeted. Harukawa shot him a bitter look from the other side of Momota, obviously not pleased at his interruption of their conversation. “I—well, everyone, actually—has heard you’re looking for a summer roommate.”

”I am,” Momota had responded absentmindedly, searching intently in his locker. “And I’m not taking in whatever mass murderer you’re about to suggest to me.” He paused, then scowled down at Kokichi. “Or you.”

Kokichi had sighed. “Fine,” he’d said, shaking his head. “I guess you’re rich enough to _not_  need an extra ¥28,000 a month. Oh, well!”

And then he’d skipped away, humming the whole while. Before he’d turned the corner, he had glanced back at Momota who, as expected, was staring after him with his eyebrows furrowed. Harukawa’s hand was tight around his elbow as she tried for his attention. Kokichi had smiled and continued on.

”I’m not fucking rooming with you,” Momota had said the next day, sounding unconvinced. “I’m not. Okay? I’m not.”

”Understandable,” Kokichi had shrugged, continuing to scrawl a vulgar doodle on the chalkboard. “Everyone knows Momota-chan is too much of an ungrateful pussy to take a handout _or_ a challenge, so it doesn’t come as a surprise.”

Momota’s fists clenched. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

”Do you like my drawing?” Kokichi said. “It reminds me of you.”

Momota frowned at it. “Uh. What is it?”

Kokichi smirked.

Momota shook his head, ignoring that. “How am I supposed to fucking believe that you’re gonna be paying me ¥28,000 a month? You’re you. And it’s a single fucking room. There’s not even an option to put you on the lease.”

”I love shady deals!” Kokichi had chimed, setting the chalk down. “We can go under the table. And since no one else is offering, I think you’ll just have to take your only option.”

They stared at each other.

”Tsukuba,” Momota said. “I’m going to Tsukuba. That’s two hours out, dude.”

”I know!” Kokichi said. “I’d be excited to travel. I’m banned from most buildings in this area, anyways! Freak paint-related accident; would take too long to elaborate.”

”It’s not cheap. What would you do about money? Where would you even be getting so much from?”

”Pfft! Momota-chan doesn’t think being an evil mastermind pays off...”

Momota rubbed at his chin. ”Your parents. Alright, why the hell would your parents let you move?”

”Why the hell would yours?”

“You know I’m working out there, right?” Momota frowned. He shook his head again, as if to clear his thoughts, then sighed. “You know what? Fucking forget it. I already said we’re not doing this.”

”Sure thing,” Kokichi had smiled, taking a step closer. “You can say that. Just let me know when your desperation caves.” And then he’d wiped his chalk-covered hand down the front of Momota’s jacket, and they’d both taken off from the classroom in a wild sprint.

It had taken exactly another week to wear Momota down, and Kokichi comes face to face with the culmination of that for the second time in the evening, when he steps back in through the front door of the apartment, plastic bags hanging off of his arms.

Momota looks up from the couch.

That’s curious. There’s a couch now, right in the center of the room. And his bag. And a table, and a rug, and a lamp in the corner. There's also a large stain across the floor where the fake blood trail used to be; it's like the thing is still there, but now it’s brown instead of red, and also a permanent fixture of the home.

Kokichi grins, still planted in the doorway. What a lovely memento of their first day living together. He redirects his attention to Momota, whose thumbs are frozen over the screen of his phone. “Aren’t you so glad to see me, Momota-chan?" he asks. "Here and alive. And I’m so glad to see you, for the record. Here. Alive. For six months.”

Momota must miss his tone. ”You literally sent me into fucking shock this morning,” he responds instead, sitting up. Kokichi scoffs as Momota tosses his phone to the side. What a ludicrous accusation. He kicks the door shut behind him, sets his bags down, then walks farther into the room to better observe the new decor.

”You know what sent _me_ into shock?” he questions, staring up at the lone curtain rod above the balcony. Huh—leave it to Momota to forget about curtains, apparently. He turns back to face him and yells, “Getting assaulted by a killer A/C unit, begging for salvation, and receiving no response! Way to be selfless, Momota-chan. Letting me die like that!”

Momota jumps to his feet and points at him. “We need to fucking talk!”

Kokichi recoils dramatically. "Are you calling off the engagement!?"

"Wh—the—what!?” Momota finds words through his spluttering. “No! What the fuck?"

"Oh, thank God!" Kokichi cries, clasping his hands in front of him. “M-Momota-chan, I—I don’t think I could bear it if our marriage was in jeopardy.” His pitch gets higher. “You can kick me out of your house, but you can’t kick me out of your heart!”

Kokichi was hoping that his little spiel would inspire a bit more than disgust, but apparently that’s what he has to settle with, because Momota looks nothing more than revolted as he curls his lip up at him.

“The fuck are you on?” he says.

Kokichi frowns. ”A good darn time,” he huffs, waving Momota off. He turns back to the balcony door. “Did you know you forgot to buy curtains? It looks like you’ve forgotten to buy curtains. Or is this just a stylistic choice because you’re experiencing rebellion—“

”Ouma!” Momota shouts. Kokichi turns to face him, slowly. “Would you just shut the fuck up for a minute!? I said we need to fucking talk, okay?”

Kokichi’s hands go to his hips. “And if it’s not about the engagement, then what is it about?”

Momota is looking more pissed off by the second. “We’re not fucking engaged, asshole! We need to talk about, like,” he waves around the room, “boundaries and shit!”

”Oh, I get it!” Kokichi snorts. “Suddenly you’re not paralyzed with fear over my potential murder, and you think it gives you a free pass to be a right git to me, huh?”

Momota blinks, hard. “What the fuck is a—? Okay, you know what? Forget that.” His voice quickly becomes accusatory. “Don’t you ever get fucking tired of derailing every single conversation you walk into? Like, I try to actually talk about what’s happening here, and you start screaming about some other shit instead.”

Kokichi rolls his eyes. ”And what’s _actually_ happening here, Momota-chan?”

Momota bares his palms as if the answer is obvious. “We’re fucking living together!”

Kokichi smiles and runs his hand along the wall. Beige paint, beige carpet, black table, black couch. How boring. He redirects his attention up to Momota, whose appearance has him distinctively sticking out no matter where he goes. He’s a bright splash of purple in an otherwise dull room in an otherwise dull building. Kokichi can appreciate that, at least. Momota’s personality may be comparable to the predetermined advice of a Magic 8-Ball, but at least he _looks_ interesting.

And besides—even Magic 8-Balls are fun for a little bit. That’s what else Kokichi likes about Momota: they can go from 0 to 100 in half a second flat. And he likes being at 100. Maybe the entertainment value on that is far from mutual, but it doesn’t need to be reciprocated to benefit him. Predetermined was the key word; he knows he can only get so much back, yeah, but the real fun is in the anticipation to see which response his words will warrant. Just screaming, a lecture, an insult, or complaints.

Momota waits with his arms crossed for a reply. Kokichi, still smiling, narrows his eyes just the slightest bit at him. “Signs point to yes,” he says.

Momota frowns even deeper. “What?”

”Concentrate and ask again,” Kokichi says, stepping past the couch to head up the hall. He recovers his bag from the floor on his way.

Those were his other key words. _Little bit_. Because after that grace period has ended, hearing the same lines over and over simply becomes futile and exhausting. And, jeez, what a short grace period it is.

“You...” Momota is less surprised than Kokichi expected him to be. He recovers swiftly and gives chase after him. “Hey! Ouma!”

Kokichi tiptoes along their newly acquired burn stains and relocates the closet. The bedroom door, across from it, is shut.

”Oh, this is cool!” he says, pulling the closet open. “You actually packed more than one towel. I was hoping you would!" He reaches in and pulls one out. "Phew, Momota-chan, you really had my back on this one!”

Momota grabs his shoulder. ”What the fuck are you doing?”

Kokichi pauses to look down at the hand on him distastefully. When he glares up at Momota, the revulsion in his face must motivate him further, because he tightens his grip defiantly.

”Showering,” Kokichi answers slowly, like Momota is stupid. Which he is. His words get even more condescending. “What _else_ would I be doing?”

Momota shoves him just hard enough to get Kokichi to face him. Kokichi swats Momota’s hand off of him straight away; they both keep their arms raised for a second too long, as if expecting the need to defend themselves in case of a fight, but then they lower them, slowly, and both take a step back.

Momota’s sour expression is still cemented in place. “I said I wanted to talk to you."

”You did,” Kokichi acknowledges. He tilts his head to the side, pointedly. “Ask again later.” For the second time that day, he shoulders past Momota, who is either too stunned to react again, or just not willing to get so physical so fast.

Must be the former, Kokichi thinks. Momota seems to solve most of his problems by punching. He locks the bathroom door behind him and lets his bag fall to the ground with a thud.

-

**Kaede [6:40 PM]** : oh no! :( momota-kun, that looks awful. have you tried using cleaner at all??

**Harumaki [6:40 PM]** : Wow.

[6:41 PM]: Yeah. Didn’t work, it won’t fucking budge

**Harumaki [6:41 PM]** : What did I say.

**Shuuichi [6:42 PM]** : Ouma-kun did that? Was it an accident?

**Harumaki [6:42 PM]** : Definitely not

[6:42 PM]: No. Its the longest fucking story. Doesn’t matter though cause my security deposit is fucked no matter what

**Kaede [6:42 PM]** : that’s so irresponsible!!!

**Kaede [6:42 PM]** : i hope everything else besides that went okay!

**Harumaki [6:43 PM]** : I want to hear the story.

**Shuuichi [6:43 PM]** : Momota-kun, do you think you could call us? I’m available to talk if everyone else is...

**Kaede [6:43 PM]** : oh yeah! i could for a bit!

[6:43 PM]: Yeah, course I can

**Harumaki [6:43 PM]** : That’s fine.

Kaito breathes a sigh of relief at the loading circle on his phone screen, the digital light flickering rapidly as it revolves. He watches it go, more transfixed than he should be, but it's fine; he feels entitled to a brief period of zoning out on the couch after the sort of day that he's had. Other than the time he got to spend with his grandparents, all the other hours have just been shitshow after shitshow. No, not even all the other hours: just the hours involving Ouma. The kid's pinballed between enthusiasm and angst faster than Kaito would've predicted, hitting everything from—fucking hell, fake murder to biting remarks within minutes. It’s insanity.

And it's not that Kaito hasn't taken the proper time to come to terms with their arrangement, because he has; he did. It was inevitable that living with Ouma would be a super fucking weird experience, and he knew that, but it's just that the past 12 hours have been off to an exceptionally hasty start. Things have already become weirder than anticipated. Kaito's almost pissed off about it; he should have expected more than arguments and avoidance out of the kid. Why didn’t he? Plus, coupled with how little sleep he's actually on, Kaito’s not sure if he's even been processing everything correctly. The whole morning could've easily been mistaken for a fever dream.

Mostly, everything about Ouma can be mistaken for a fever dream. Sliding off the fire escape was...an _interesting_ move on his part. No, scratch that: it was just as fucking nuts as everything else he's always pulled is. It further hammers in the frustration Kaito has with himself—he should've expected this, he should've expected this, he should've expected this.

Fuck. He tries to look of the positive side of it, though. Ouma's disappearance meant that his grandparents didn't have to meet him, which would've instilled a whole other batch of worries and concerns in them about Kaito leaving home for the first time. He'd be tackling the world with a freakshow like that at his side. Plus, it also meant that he wasn't there to watch Kaito hug his grandparents goodbye for an extended amount of time, characterized by tears and assurances and promises. Not that Ouma's presence would've impeded them from doing that—Kaito's just silently thankful that the kid won't have more derisive ammunition to fire off at him while spewing his bullshit.

On the other hand, Kaito glances back down to the permanent burn across the floor and thinks: _this already isn't fucking worth it._

The bathroom door clicks open just in time for the loading icon to vanish from Kaito's screen. He turns his head as Ouma strolls into the room with dripping hair, his towel around his shoulders, to announce cordially, no trace of his prior antagonism in his words, “Hi, Momota-chan! I just got using your towels, shampoo, and soap out of my system, so I’m ready to talk about  _boundaries_ now.”

Kaito blinks at him. He’s smiling. And wearing rainbow-printed pajamas. At that moment, his screen flashes to life and alters between three different images before settling on one that cheers, "Hi, everybody!"

Ouma’s eyebrows go straight up. He covers his mouth as he gasps. "No _way_ —is that Akamatsu-chan!?” He's behind Kaito in an instant, fighting for his phone. "Hey!" he cries, leaning uncomfortably close. "Hey, Akamatsu-chan! Heeey! Guess who—!"

"Wh—G-Get the fuck off!" Kaito stammers, lunging forward to keep the device out of arm’s reach. "Dude! Are you serious!?"

Ouma is tipping himself over the couch, grabbing Kaito's shoulder for balance as he stretches to reach out, waving ferociously in an attempt for control. "Akamaaatsu-chan!" he sings, ignoring Kaito’s words. "Akamatsu-chan! Are you there!? It’s me! It's your favorite classmate!"

"Fuck off! What are you doing!?"

"Eh?" Kaede says, squinting at the blurred image. "Momota-kun, are you alright? Is that Ouma-kun with you?"

"No! No, it's fucking not!"

"Yes! Yes, it totally is!"

"Are you both okay?" Shuuichi asks, right as the app flips to his picture. He sounds genuinely concerned.

Ouma gasps again, just as theatrically as the first time. "Saihara-chan, too!? Ooh, ooh, you've got the whole ragtag bunch gathered around! Lemme join, lemme join!”

"I'll—“ Kaito hisses, scrambling for a proper grip, “I'll call you all back later!" He finally reaches the exit button, slamming it harshly before smacking his phone down onto the table.

He turns to face Ouma, still half on top of him, as his expression quickly morphs into a disappointed pout. "Aww, why would you hang up like that?” he whines. He lets his arms go slack and hang over Kaito's shoulders. “We were just about to have fun together! Way to ruin it."

Kaito actually recoils in bewilderment at him. “What the fuck are you talking about!? What _was_ that!?”

They're almost nose to nose as Ouma squints at him, irritation in his eyes. "Well, it was _supposed_ to be an act of friendship," he points out.

Kaito forces a hand to Ouma's chest to shove him away. “Holy fucking shit, you're—!”

And then something about their close vicinity catches Kaito off guard. He freezes, the suspicion draping over him like a curtain, the realization lifting that curtain in clarity. He raises his gaze to Ouma’s face, which now looks more confused about their lapse in arguing than upset with him, and blinks. “...Dude," Kaito breathes. “Did you _actually_ use my fucking shampoo?”

Ouma’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah!” he confirms with a grin. “I did! You really surprised me, actually. I thought for sure you’d use products scented with things like,” he taps a finger to his chin, “hmm, I dunno, oil grease, beer, and masculinity? So I wasn’t expecting the fresh linen scent you had. Not that I didn’t enjoy it! I thought it was a really bold choice, Momota-chan. Classy!”

Kaito doesn’t actually say _‘what the fuck’_ out loud, but he’s sure the expression he makes must convey the sentiment.

Ouma’s smile is unwavering. He reaches and grasps the hand Kaito still has against his chest and removes it. Kaito is still a bit too stunned to react; he only sits there as Ouma swings himself around the side of the couch to slam into the cushions next to him.

”I was being honest earlier, though,” he says, seating himself close to Kaito’s side. It’s the word ‘honest’ that finally snaps Kaito out of his stupor; he lowers his arms and frowns at the kid. Ouma huffs and speedily continues, “About being ready to talk, jeez! Replenishing my skin helped calm the stirrings in my mind. So if you actually wanna yell at me now, I’m all ears!”

Kaito looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. Ouma again has pinballed back around to being cheery and enthusiastic as if they hadn’t argued earlier, which is...kind of a decent resolution, but still totally fucking weird. And creepy. He wishes someone would prevent Ouma from acting like this in the real world; it’s just not natural. Maybe, Kaito considers, once their time together is over, he could write a guide on how to interact with the kid without actually fucking losing it. If he manages to do that himself. Huh. God knows people would need it.

Kaito also thinks that it’s probably not the greatest fucking thing to hate the idea of your roommate interacting with people for the sake of their own sanity, but...it's the hand he's been dealt for six months. That's such a short amount of time. He can handle it. It’ll be fine. It will. Saying things makes them come true, so he will be fine. Really.

Especially since the payoff will be going to space. There’s no issue that could ever be intense enough to stop him from going to space—including Ouma.

Kaito takes a deep breath. He must’ve taken too long to answer, too, because Ouma holds a hand up in front of his face and snaps.

”Uhh, Earth to Momota-chan!” he says, snapping again. “Ground control tuning in! Are you so sleepy as to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, or is this just your stupid way of getting people to fuck off?”

”What?” Kaito says, shaking himself. He glares down at Ouma. “Dude, shut up. I was thinking.” He pauses, as if considering. What were they talking about? “Uh, you said something about acting civil for once before this, right?”

Ouma scoffs, kicking his feet up. “ _For once_ , he says. As if I’ve never been civil!” He shoots Kaito a sketchy grin. “You know my secret organization is founded on civility, right?”

That’s a lie, Kaito knows. Three years of harassment has been enough to make certain claims of Ouma’s obvious. Plus, he’s making... _that_ face at him.

Kaito leans back farther into the couch. “You know,” he sighs, raising an eyebrow, “you talk a whole lot about this secret organization thing, dude, but I sure as hell don’t see them anywhere.”

Ouma’s expression turns grave.

Kaito sits up instantly at the reaction. “What?” he presses, alarm evident in his voice. “Ouma? Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

Ouma blinks. “Momota-chan, do you believe in superstition?”

”H-Huh?” Kaito says. He swallows. “Why?”

For a moment, Ouma stares fixedly at him, but then he shakes his head. “No reason,” he decides. “Just a little bit curious.” Before Kaito can demand an answer or explanation as to what the hell he’s talking about, Ouma claps his hands together. “So!” he says, his tone now on the other end of the spectrum. “About this _bed_ that you got me.”

It’s an obvious redirect; three years has been enough for Kaito to recognize those as well. Despite it, the question catches his attention enough that he instinctively answers. “Oh, uh,” he says. “Yeah. We’re sitting on it.”

Ouma tilts his head. “Hm?”

”I said we’re sitting on it,” Kaito shrugs.

Ouma tilts his head farther.

“...Are you—?”

”Momota-chan," Ouma says, "I always knew you were gonna make me sleep on a couch.”

”Wh—? Hey!” Kaito falters, jumping to his feet. “Dude, I didn’t fucking mean... Okay, it’s not like—look, just get up. It pulls out into a bed.”

”I always knew you were gonna make me sleep on a couch-bed!” Ouma complains, rising to stand next to him. Kaito shoots him a dirty look, then kneels down to throw the cushions off and unfold the standing mattress from under it. He snaps the first supporting beam into place on the floor, then frowns at the table behind him. He kicks it back against the wall with his foot to finish arranging the bed, and Ouma snorts at him.

“Okay, handyman.”

”Shut up!” Kaito snaps, smacking the base of the mattress to fold it all the way out. He gets back to his feet. The bottom leg of the frame doesn’t quite reach the floor on its own, but it’s at least tolerable, in his opinion, for being as cheap as it was. He turns to Ouma, who looks unimpressed.

”No sheets, either?” he asks, crossing his arms. He turns his nose up. “Huh! I guess Momota-chan just expects me to raw-dog a box spring in the middle of the living room. That’s a pretty hefty request—“

“Did you say raw-dog?” Kaito interrupts, frowning. Ouma glances up at him. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Oh,” Ouma whistles, reaching his hands up behind his head, “believe me, Momota-chan, you do _not_ wanna know.”

Kaito continues staring at his posture. Ouma doesn’t elaborate.

”Is it, like, a sex thing?” Kaito presses, disgusted. “What the fuck?”

Ouma snaps his head over at him. “If you want an example that desperately, maybe you should buy me dinner, first!”

Okay, fuck that. Kaito smacks him, then turns to head up the hall. “Jackass.”

”Ow!” Ouma chirps, rubbing his shoulder. “Hey, Momota-chan!” He quickly gives chase. “Where are you going? You didn’t—“

Ouma’s words die as Kaito pushes the door to the bedroom— _his_  bedroom—open and steps inside. He waits, still half in the hallway, silent as Kaito opens his closet door. He left the extra set of sheets on the ground while unpacking and arranging things for himself earlier; God forbid he didn’t make Ouma’s fucking bed for him. He turns to Ouma, blank-faced under the doorframe, and tosses the set at him.

”There’s your fucking sheets,” Kaito says, walking back to meet him. Ouma's caught them, but he still hasn’t spoken; he’s staring directly ahead and frowning, very slightly, at the layout there before him. Kaito reaches the door and frowns as well when Ouma doesn’t acknowledge him. “Dude, are you gonna move, or what?”

”Your mattress is on the floor,” Ouma states, staring it down in the center of the room. “Your. Your...twin, mattress.”

Kaito sighs. “I know it is, dude. Can you fucking move now?”

On the contrary, the concession seems to cement and further spur Ouma on. His knees begin to shake, and when he jolts forward to support himself, Kaito jolts backwards in surprise.

”H-Hey! What the—?”

Ouma’s in hysterics in under a second.

”Nishishi! O-Oh, my G-G-God, Momota-chaaan!” His voice gets loud and breathy. “Y-Y-You—! Th-That’s—nishishi!—that’s—! That’s so f—!”

Kaito jumps. “Enough!” he bursts, red in the face. God, he has enough decency to be fucking embarrassed by that, at least. He roughly shoulders Ouma into the hall and slams the door behind them. “Come on, asshole!” He grabs Ouma’s wrist to tug him along.

”M-Momota-chan!” he’s still laughing, doubling over and slowing them down. “Y-You really! Y-You really didn’t b-b-buy—!”

”Shut up!” Kaito yells, moving him as easy as he’d move a chess piece, then releasing him once they enter the living room. He turns briskly to Ouma’s stilted frame, still giggling. “It’s—I didn't—I didn’t wanna bring my fucking bed from home, alright?” He rubs at the back of his head. “And another was so expensive, and I told my grandparents I had one lined up out here...”

He realizes he’s rambling as Ouma starts to pull himself together. The kid sniffs, loudly, and actually wipes a fucking tear from his eye. Fucking hell, the dramatics of it; he’s red in the face too, but from amusement instead of shame. Fuck him. Their eyes meet.

Ouma smiles. “You’re an idiot,” he says, simply.

Kaito smacks him again. “And you’re a fucking bastard!”

Despite the anger in his words, Ouma only grows more pleased with his reactions. He steps around Kaito unevenly to sit himself on the edge of the mattress.

”At least I have a bed!” he chimes brightly. His head suddenly snaps up, and his eyes are wide. “Wait. Momota-chan!” he gasps. “ _Wow_ —you actually got _me_ a bed, but you didn’t get one for yourself?”

”I said to shut up!”

Kaito makes to push Ouma over and sit next to him, but Ouma grabs his hand. “Wait!” he says. Kaito makes a face at him. “Wait, wait,” he continues. He looks sincere as he tilts his head slightly. “Can you grab my bags that I left by the door for me?”

Kaito blinks. He shoves Ouma aside. “Grab them yourself, asshole.”

Ouma huffs, but makes room for him on the mattress. He pauses in his endeavor to undo the set of sheets, then thrusts them hard at Kaito. “Finish these,” Ouma tells him, then hops up from the bed and skips to the door.

Kaito frowns at the sheets. Fuck _that_. When Ouma returns some seconds later, Kaito's purposely made no progress, and he glances between Kaito’s hands and face, pointedly, then raises an eyebrow at him.

”Ooh, you sure showed me,” he mocks. Kaito groans and hits Ouma’s shoulder with his own when he settles back next to him, a bag of chips in hand. Kaito frowns at that, too.

”Are you fucking kidding?” he asks. “You were out the entire damn day, and that’s all you bought yourself?”

Ouma tears the top seams open. “No, of course not!” he clarifies. He glances over at Kaito and winks. “I bought some other snacks, too. Do you want this bag? They’re garlic edamame, and I prefer the honey butter ones." He pauses, then taps his chin. "Actually, hang on. These are still reeeally, really good, so I might have to retract my offer—”

“You don’t even fucking have towels!” Kaito counters. He busies himself by undoing the wrapping around the sheets, which both calms and pisses him off. Ugh. “And as far as I can fucking tell, all you even brought with you was that one duffel bag and that stupid shit in the kitchen. Which I threw under the sink, by the way—“

”Wait!” Ouma says. Kaito glances at his surprised face. He leans closer. “You didn’t look inside my bag when you moved it, right, Momota-chan? Or else, I told you, I’m filing a report, and—!”

Kaito snorts. “I don’t give a shit about your clothes, dude.” He drops his gaze to Ouma’s pajamas for only the second time that night. Pretty telling, he guesses, that the kid’s personality can outdo whatever the fuck kind of monstrosity he’s currently got on. “But, uh, do all of them look like that?”

Ouma rolls his eyes. “Of course they do. What else would they look like? They’re all that I have!”

Kaito huffs loudly. “Come on. Do you even have your own—anything?”

” _No_ ,” Ouma drawls, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I travel light! Like a simple pioneer does, Momota-chan.” He kicks his legs out in front of him, one after the other. “Besides, you’re only here for six months, right? And I’m just couch surfing—literally, on a couch—so why’s it matter if we share a few things?" He bites into a chip. "Or, well, everything?”

Kaito shakes his head. “I’m letting you fucking stay in my apartment. You’re gonna buy your own shit.”

”Hm,” Ouma ponders. “No I’m not!”

”Yes, you fucking are!” Kaito snaps. “We’re going fucking shopping tomorrow. I’d force you out tonight if I didn't have to get up early for training.”

Ouma bites into another chip and makes a pleasant humming sound. “Hmm, if you're the one paying, then that’ll be fun! I hope you like tire stores. And I forgot about your little Space Center endeavors. Are they launching you up into the void tomorrow and telling you to make do? That’d be kinda funny.”

Kaito scoffs, focusing only on Ouma’s last statement. “As if I couldn’t fucking handle that in the first place!”

Ouma shoots him a weird look, but Kaito ignores it in favor of unraveling all the sheets from the base they’re on and spreading them out onto the mattress. He has them separate and unfolded for the most part when his phone buzzes from the table against the wall. Ouma sets his chips aside and seamlessly takes over when Kaito rises from the bed.

”Hope everything’s good with the bandits!” Ouma quips. “Don’t get too fired up on ‘em.”

"I'm not too fired up!" Kaito yells as he picks up his phone. From the bed, Ouma clicks his tongue.

”Right.”

**Shuuichi [7:09 PM]** : Momota-kun, is everything okay over there?

**Shuuichi [7:10 PM]** : You rushed off in a hurry and haven't been back, so I thought...

Kaito glances back at Ouma, poorly attempting to fix his bed with hands covered in chip seasoning. He turns to his phone.

[7:10 PM]: Yeah, its fine, Ouma was just being a dumbass. Can I call you guys back in like 10?

**Shuuichi [7:10 PM]** : Akamatsu-san had to do something with her family, but Harukawa-san and I are still free!

**Shuuichi [7:11 PM]** : I hope that works.

**Shuuichi [7:11 PM]** : But it’s fine if it doesn’t!

Kaito smiles. He types a response.

[7:11 PM]: That works perfectly dude. Talk to you soon

When he turns back to the mattress, Ouma has somehow, within seconds, managed to tangle himself into the fitted sheet and is both kicking and screaming.

”WAAAH! Momota-chan—!”

”What the fuck!?” Kaito yells, rushing over to grab his leg. “What the hell are you doing!?”

”Momota-chaaan!” Ouma cries again, flailing wildly in an attempt to free himself. “Heeelp! I—I insulted its mother, and it attacked me—!”

Kaito wraps a hand around Ouma’s thrashing ankle, another around the sheet, and yanks, hard, ripping the kid out of the knot of bedding he’d lost himself in. Ouma, once free, gasps and rolls to his back.

He stares up at Kaito, wide-eyed. “Woah,” he pants, placing a hand over his chest. His eyes narrow. “Do you work out?”

Kaito tosses the sheet back on top of him, and Ouma shrieks and rolls out of the way to dodge it. He rights himself at the edge of the mattress and stands.

”Finish this up yourself, alright?” Kaito says to him, unraveling the sheet. “I’m going to talk to Shuuichi, then I’m showering and going to bed. God, I’m tired as fuck, and I have to get so much shit done tomorrow.”

Ouma raises an eyebrow at him, but grabs the sheet and traces along its edge with his fingers. He finds the stitching immediately and folds it over a corner of the mattress, looking practiced and exact.

Kaito flinches. “What the fuck?” he says. “You were acting like you didn’t know how to—“

”It was a lie, Momota-chan!” Ouma says, glancing up to smile at him. “I just wanted you to do all the work. But you’re too tired to function, apparently. Whatever! Go talk to your generic, little friends and then hit the hay. Got a big day of work ahead of you, navigating the stars!”

”The hell do you think I do for training?” Kaito grimaces. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ugh—God, whatever. I’m leaving, alright? Just finish your bed and then do whatever, I don’t care.”

Ouma’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you authorizing another murder?”

Kaito cringes, then points directly at Ouma’s smiling face. “Absolutely fucking _not_.”

”Fine, fine. How boring, though. I guess you can pull your little vanishing act if you want,” Ouma shrugs. “I’m gonna be busy, anyway! I have friends too, y’know?”

Kaito snorts. “Right, dude.” He stands there for a moment, watching Ouma prepare everything, and frowns. When he finishes his work on both corners and moves to the third one near the top of the frame, tucking it under the mattress, Kaito leans in and grabs the bag of chips from the center of the bed.

Ouma starts.

”I changed my mind,” Kaito snorts, turning up the hall. “I do want these.”

”Huh—? Hey!” Ouma calls after him, his voice high and whiny. “Momota-chan! You—you jerkface, I retracted my offer!”

As Kaito opens his bedroom door to disappear for the rest of the night, his phone in one hand and his pathetic, impromptu dinner in the other, Ouma yells out from behind him, “Fine! But just so you know, you’re _permanently_ _barred_ from the honey butter flavor!”

The door slams shut.

” _And_ the engagement is off!” Ouma finishes, angry. “Bastard!”

-

Momota’s loud, obnoxious voice carries out from the other room, mixed in with some digital, distorted ones, as Kokichi stares up at his phone, flat on his back, holding the device directly above his face with one hand. He scrolls lazily with the other, searching over his options, then finds that he’s lingered on some for some moments too long. He sighs quietly, then glances out the balcony door and looks into the darkness of the night. After a moment, he refocuses his attention to what it’d been on prior.

He frowns at his screen.

Better stop contemplating this before it gets out of hand, he figures.

So he scrolls some more, tipping his head back to lean into the space where he doesn’t have a pillow.

“Gonta-kun,” Kokichi eventually greets, having decided on an outlet. He crosses one leg over the other and rolls his eyes toward the direction of the bedroom, laughter still ringing from within it. He narrows his eyes. “You will not _be-lieve_ how the adult life is treating me so far.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suppose updates will be weekly in the best case scenario, or biweekly in the worst. thanks for reading!


	3. April II

Momota picks up a package of celery from a bin, holds it up to the light to inspect questionably, then frowns, sets it back, and repeats the process with another. He does this for about a minute before deciding on one, and when he turns around to toss it in their basket, Kokichi is appraising him with an extremely similar expression. Momota scowls and turns away.

”You’re _really_ not fuckin’ funny,” he grits out.

Kokichi blinks, slowly. “I’m not trying to be funny,” he responds, tilting his head. He blinks again, with his hand supporting his cheek. “In fact, I’m just genuinely curious here. Does everyone else at JAXA know that they hired a hippie?”

Momota spins. “Shut up!” he snaps. “I just fucking said that you’re not—!”

”Nishishi! Ah, but Momota-chan, you _know_ I’m not kidding, though!” Kokichi grins. He hits Momota with another neutral, composed expression. “Say,” he begins, “are you required to use a certain amount of gel? Is it because everyone is terrified of encountering the local yeti?”

“Oh my fucking _God_ ,” Momota forces, shaking his head. He continues walking stiffly ahead of Kokichi, who allows another giggle then follows, close on his heels.

Around 9:00 PM the night before, Kokichi had finally gotten tired of trying to make do on his couch-bed without a pillow—his neck was hurting, obviously, from the lack of proper support—so he’d gotten up, marched straight to Momota’s door, and pounded on it until Momota had slurred, “What the fuck!” from inside, then “Stop it!” and “Ouma!” in quick succession. Kokichi kept knocking until the doorknob jerked, audibly unlocked, and Momota swung the door open, a hand against his face in exhaustion. Kokichi opened his mouth to speak, then shut it right after.

” _What_ ,” Momota groaned, his voice deep and groggy from sleep, “the _fuck_ do you want that’s _so_ fucking important.”

Kokichi didn’t respond.

Momota rubbed at his eye, yawning, then cracked it open and frowned at him. “Why the fuck do you look like that.”

Kokichi exhaled. “C...Couldn’t,” he swallowed, “I say the same thing to you, right now...?”

Momota frowned deeper. “What? What’s so... _Oh_.” He reached up. “Oh,” he said again, tucking a piece of loose, damp hair behind his ear. He shot an unimpressed glare at Kokichi’s arched eyebrows. “Dude. Really?”

”You look awful!” Kokichi burst instinctively, a smile twisting its way onto his face. “And I thought you looked bad with your jet-engine hairstyle! Nishishi, apparently you’re just taking the lesser of two evils!”

“Alright, fuck off.”

Kokichi jammed his foot in the door as Momota moved to shut it. “Wait!” he said. “Wait, wait, Momota-chan, I wanted—“

”Dude, I was fucking _asleep_ —“

”—to ask for a pillow! Sure, okay, the couch-bed was kind enough, but is a bed really a bed if it doesn’t have a pillow? Not to start any deep, moral questions, or anything. Though, I _have_ always wondered if you replace every board of a ship, if it’s still the same ship.”

”...What?”

”A pillow,” Kokichi summed up. “I need a pillow.”

Momota grumbled through the wood of the door. “Thought you’d curl up like a dog, or something...”

Kokichi huffed. “Offensive!”

”Not really.”

”Totally!”

”It’s _not_.”

Kokichi frowned, his cheek pressed against the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle. Talking to Momota like this—when he couldn’t even see him, let alone hear him clearly—wasn’t accomplishing much.

”Are you gonna open this?” Kokichi asked, trying to get his leg farther through the gap. “I didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep. Manly sleep? Again, I _really_ just wanted a pillow.”

”I don’t _have_ another pillow,” Momota grumbled, then abruptly kneed him out of the way with his own leg. Kokichi tripped a step back and huffed for the second time when Momota slammed the door in his face.

Jeez. All that for a null transaction. Kokichi waited until he could no longer hear Momota moving around the room, then called in, “You didn’t lock it, hillbilly!”

He was met with a groan, and then nothing else. Kokichi ended up using his duffel bag as a pillow that night.

Or, well, at least until the morning. Momota had woken up around 6:00 AM to get himself ready and leave; the Tsukuba Space Center, as Kokichi had figured, wasn’t that far of a walk from their place for convenience. It was, however, not in the direction that Kokichi had wandered days before. He wouldn’t have missed something so extensive. He decided he’d have to scope it out sometime later in the week when he didn’t have any other priorities waiting for him, like ransacking Momota’s bedroom.

No—ransacking is too harsh of a word. Raiding, maybe, Kokichi mused, skipping over the boring space posters on the walls to turn Momota’s closet inside out. Momota had an abundance of stupid t-shirts and button-downs strung up on hangers, and Kokichi hummed as he flitted through them and pushed them aside. There was some useless junk like puzzles and cards, some pants in a bin, extra things like belts and, _ugh_ , flip-flops in there, and then a wheeled suitcase, back in the corner. Kokichi forced that one to the ground and unzipped it, and it was empty save for an envelope that was tucked into a mesh pocket. He retrieved it and slipped a card out of the jagged, torn seam. The calligraphy on the front read only “ _Congratulations_ ,” and Kokichi frowned as he opened it up.

Instead of having a script inside, the card-stock was printed blank; that made room for the full page of handwriting that was covering the back. Kokichi pulled the card close to read it, and it became very clear within the first lines of “ _Dear Kaito_ ,” and “ _We are so proud of you_ ,” that it was written by his grandparents. Gross. Kokichi read the whole thing regardless, then put it back where he found it.

Momota had more plants in his room than Kokichi would’ve imagined, too—he must be into that kind of thing, or whatever. Kokichi prodded around a spider plant and some purple flowers he didn’t recognize under the window, a phone charger plugged into the outlet between them, then grabbed Momota’s pillow off of his stupid, little floor mattress with a blanket at the bottom. He got to his feet, prepared to leave, but then was distracted by the group of picture frames riddled over his scratched-up dresser, right alongside a pile of ugly souvenirs and a moon buggy model.

Kokichi tucked the pillow under his arm to pull the pictures close, one by one. The cheapest frames contained pictures of Momota, Harukawa, Akamatsu, and Saihara, all in different combinations and arrangements. There were both posed shots and candid shots, and some of their other classmates were mixed into them; Kokichi rolled his eyes specifically at an image of Momota, Saihara, and Harukawa in some location he didn’t recognize, their arms linked with that Sonia girl from the other class. One frame was packed with what looked to only be photo-booth pictures, and Kokichi scoffed aloud at a square in the corner of Momota and Akamatsu making faces along with peace signs.

Kokichi scoffed even louder when he got to the picture of Momota in a spacesuit with what must be his grandparents on either sides of his arms, pulling the same peace sign he’d been pulling in the random shot with Akamatsu. God, is he really convinced that that’s cute, or something? How truly and embarrassingly awful, Kokichi thought, sliding that one back into place.

At the end of the dresser in a heavier frame, the gold coating scuffed and stripped in places, was a picture of a young couple on a couch, a toddler smiling between them, an older couple posed behind them. Kokichi screwed his face up and brought the frame closer. Was that Momota as a child with his parents and grandparents? The older couple was definitely an aged-down version of the couple in Momota’s spacesuit picture, and the younger couple certainly resembled the child; the man had the same, goofy smile as the kid beside him, and the woman had his same eyes and nose. Momota’s face. Maybe he himself wasn’t totally recognizable as a kid—really, it was hard to recognize Momota as anything but some goatee-wearing freak at this point—but it could pass as his family portrait, Kokichi was sure. A nice one at that. He rolled his eyes and set it back where it was. Weird of Momota to keep such an outdated picture like that, but he wouldn’t put it past the guy to be obsessed with the sentimental value, or something of the sort.

Kokichi had peeked in the top drawer too, just for good measure, and yelped after encountering piles of boxers. He slammed it shut and raced off immediately after.

Okay, well. He hadn’t needed _that_. Maybe it was good knowledge to retain for blackmail or something, though—he tried to both file information away and bleach his mind at once.

Either way, Kokichi ended up sleeping a lot better with Momota’s pillow under him, and when he’d woken up in the early afternoon, Momota had still been long gone. He killed time by going through the kitchen and other storage until Momota returned later in the evening in a better mood than he’d been in for the day prior, and his suggestions—or demands—that they go shopping had led them to directly where they are, currently having a one-sided argument in the middle of a grocery shop they found while wandering the suburbs.

It’s an odd situation. Better make the most of it, Kokichi decides, bouncing up on his toes to swat the back of Momota’s hair.

Momota spins quicker than anything and seizes Kokichi’s wrist. The lurching movement and ensuing struggle, however mild it is, is still enough to attract attention from other patrons around them; Kokichi stalls in his attempt to free his arm under the scrutiny, then coughs awkwardly and nods his head in the direction of the confused stares. Momota’s eyes follow the movement, and when he notices the attention, he also freezes up, then releases Kokichi’s wrist faster than he’d grabbed it.

Momota leans away awkwardly as the other customers revert back to their regular shopping, and Kokichi leans forward to wink at him.

“I’ve figured it out,” he confides, lowering his voice just for dramatic effect. Momota refocuses and blinks down at him. “Your hair is too stiff to be controlled by natural products! Therefore, I have correctly concluded that you must manage it with glue,” Kokichi punctuates with a clap. “There’s no other option!”

Momota makes a face at him. Disgust, revulsion, vexation—they’re all words Kokichi could put to how he looks. It’s become a pretty common expression already, actually; Kokichi encountered it often enough at school, and with the way things have been going, he can’t imagine it being retired anytime soon.

Good. He’s having fun with it.

”What the fuck are you even saying?” Momota asks, squinting. “I—okay, first off,” he stresses, “ _don’t_ fucking hit me like that again, and second—why the hell would I actually put shit like glue in my hair? Nobody fucking _does_ that.”

Kokichi scoffs, turning his nose up. “Hm! What a generalization of a statement, Momota-chan! I’m sure it’s something a _lot_ of celebrities try.” Kokichi recalls something specific and suddenly gasps, his whole posture surging forward. Momota steps back. “Oh, wait! Okay, here’s a thought—you know the other class that just graduated with us? With the other Ultimate Detective? I’m completely convinced a lot of them used glue on their hair! Momota-chan, you were friendly with that biker boy, right? He must’ve let you in on his hair secrets, huh?”

“Holy shit. What?” Momota says. “You... Look, dude, I have no clue what the hell you’re going on about.” He turns away, then waves for Kokichi to follow him down the aisle. “And, hey,” he continues, over his shoulder, “no matter what you’re convinced of, I’m pretty damn confident that nobody fucking puts glue in their hair.”

Kokichi skips up beside him. “ _I_ do, though.”

Momota snorts. “No you don’t.”

”Hm? Momota-chan! Uh, _yes_ , I do! Glue and mayonnaise—that’s my signature combo, so don’t doubt me! It has this real awful smell until I rub it down with perfume every morning. That’s why you can never tell—I’m a master of disguising my tricks!”

”Yeah, yeah, I’m real fuckin’ sure,” Momota groans, leaning over to dig through a crate of carrots. “Cause you’re always such an honest guy.”

Kokichi purses his lips at Momota’s back, clothed in his galactic, go-to jacket, as he rummages through the bin in front of them. Though Kokichi had mentioned it the day prior, Momota’s reaction to the surplus of auto-repair stores surrounding their apartment made it clear that he’d assumed that statement as a lie the first time around. It obviously wasn’t, though; their ten minute walk encountering car shop after car shop left Momota confused as hell and, therefore, extremely entertaining for the spectator that Kokichi was. Still, they’re far from the variety of the inner city, and while it may pay off for Momota to be as close as he can be to the Tsukuba Space Center itself, their suburb location isn’t good for much more than that. They’d walked another ten minutes out to encounter this weird place, and the convenience store Kokichi had acquainted himself with was still farther in from where they were.

It’s a lot different than being at home, Kokichi thinks, approaching Momota’s side to watch him pore over vegetables. Going shopping for necessary purchases like food will mean going out their way from now on, apparently, unless they can find something closer. To be fair, there’s next to no congestion, and that _does_ make it simpler, but the change also makes it seem...a little bit odd. Kokichi is used to the busyness and community of living around and inside a city; he’s feeling the contrast between their home and Tsukuba already, and he’s sure Momota—the most extroverted, outgoing person he knows—must feel it as well.

Even if he’s currently enthralling himself with carrots. Kokichi rocks back and forth on his heels.

”You know,” he sighs, just to say something, “most people can’t _stand_ vegetables, Momota-chan, but you’re finally living alone, and those’re the first things that you buy?” He clicks his tongue. “How totally and crazily conformist. I thought you’d rebel at least a  _little_.”

Momota doesn’t look at him; he stays concentrated on the bag of carrots he’s now holding in the air. Kokichi watches his determined face, framed by his spiky, cemented hairstyle around it. Last night, his tired face had been framed by a wavy, natural hairstyle. It’s another stark contrast that’s revealed itself already; Kokichi’s seen more sides of Momota—or, not _more_ sides, but just a single _one,_ a physical one,if you’re not counting his supposed baby picture—than he would’ve expected to a few months ago. He hadn't predicted that as being a potential issue in the week he took to consider the pros and cons of this.

What an upsetting overlook on his part. He’s seen Momota’s hair down, so Kokichi technically can’t profile him as a cardboard cutout of an appearance anymore. Some JAXA mascot who’s more a purpose than a person.

That feels a little bit odd, as well. He sort of wishes he could undo that already.

“Are you, like, five years fucking old?” Momota cuts into his thoughts, still watching the plastic rotate. “It’s not my fault you’re obsessed with all that processed shit. You should try eating actual food for once in your life—maybe it’ll help you, I dunno, grow up.” As he says it, Momota must find something he doesn’t like, because he frowns and switches the bag out for another.

”Oh, but processed foods are great for you!” Kokichi claims, leaning up to inspect the new carrots as well. “I’ve hit a solid 156 centimeters off of them, so they’ve obviously done _something_ right. They're a great bang for your buck.” He frowns. “Plus, they’re a lot less likely to kill you than these things are, considering they don’t have nearly the same amount of rotten spots.”

Momota suddenly meets Kokichi’s eyes, his face open and emotional. “Hey—you see that on them too, then, right!?” he insists. He pulls the current bag close to his face to glare at it. “Fuck, dude! I swear, these must be old as hell or something, cause if I’m not the only one seeing the—“

_Holy shit_ , Kokichi hears in his head.  _Momota is_ actually _hyperpassionate about carrots._

“—brown spots, then this place probably—“

”Oh, my Goddd!” Kokichi interrupts.

It’s loud enough to get Momota to falter, shut up, then raise an eyebrow at him. Kokichi groans again and yanks the carrots from Momota’s hand, and when he throws them in their basket, it effectively catches Momota off guard. Kokichi ignores his surprised face in favor of running his hands through his hair.

“Momota-chan,” he hisses, glancing back up. “Does it _usually_ take you this long to pick out some damn carrots?”

Momota’s eyebrows lower at that. “The hell? It’s not like you have some other place to be.”

Kokichi sighs in exasperation, relaxing his neck just enough that his head hangs forward with ease. “ _I’m_ gonna get rotten spots from standing here this long!” he complains. “Like, you’re sooo weird, okay? I didn’t know you had such a weird thing for plants. I didn't _wanna_ know about that, either.” He lifts his head to squint at Momota. “Especially when plants are so...like,” he thinks, then decides, “obnoxious.”

Momota looked ready to throw out a rebuttal in his typical pissed-off fashion, but then he blinks at Kokichi’s last statement.

Kokichi huffs. “What?” he says, rolling his eyes. “Why’re you looking like—“ he waves, “I, like, spoke in alien, or something? Or recited your social security number?”

Momota blinks harder, as if it’ll clear up whatever part of their conversation he’s not understanding. “Did you...” He coughs. “Did you really call plants _obnoxious_ of all things?”

”Yeah,” Kokichi confirms, stepping away. “Obviously!” He turns to busy himself with a bin of white onions, and though he’s facing a different direction, he can still feel Momota’s eyes on him. “Of course they’re obnoxious! And _dumb_. Plants are dumb! All they do is yell and scream about stupid things, you know? Stupid things like the unhealthiness of processed foods, and how they don’t have extra pillows, and how they’re probably trying to act so mature to overcompensate for the fact that they’ve been away from home for, like, one single day, and yet somehow managed to forget curtains.”

After finishing his whole spiel, Kokichi chances a glimpse over at Momota.

He looks positively _bewildered_.

“ _Dude_ ,” Momota emphasizes, slowly. “ _What_ _?_ ”

Kokichi gives him a once-over. “You know,” he adds after a second, sighing, “plants have some real awful facial hair, too.” He waits. “Maybe it’d look better alongside a hairstyle that’s not made with glue.”

The obvious jabs still don’t land. Momota continues blinking at him, his mouth slightly open.

Kokichi, at once, feels his blood pressure skyrocket. It's like flipping a switch; this _has_ to be a joke. He’s literally been unearthly specific. How dense can Momota actually _be?_

“Oh, God!” Kokichi shouts, stamping his foot when he still gets no reaction. “You really _are_ that stupid!”

”Wh—? H-Hey!” Momota suddenly starts. “What the fuck!? I-I’m not stupid—!”

”Then how are you missing that I’m talking about you, dumbass!?” Kokichi accuses, waving his arm at him. “Learn to take a hint, or—or to pick up on social cues, or _anything_ like that sometime—!”

”You were talking about—?” Momota pauses as it registers, clear across his face. “ _Oh_ ,” he finally grits out, waving back at Kokichi, “fuck _you_ , dude! How the hell was I supposed to know what you meant with all that shit!? You’re _always_ going on without making any sense!”

Kokichi stomps off down the aisle; Momota follows, but Kokichi acts before he can get too close. God forbid he tries to _touch his shoulder again_ , or something.

“It was so obvious!” Kokichi exclaims, throwing a bell pepper at Momota. Momota’s eyebrows go up; he stumbles, but he catches the thing with his free hand. “How can you miss that kind of stuff!?” Kokichi continues, _still_ throwing peppers. “Don’t you ever use your _brain?_ Of _course_ I was talking about you! _Anybody_ would know what I meant!”

” _Nobody_ would know what you meant!” Momota counters, juggling all kinds of peppers. “Ouma. _Dude_. Nobody _ever_ knows what you mean!”

”Well, screw you!” Kokichi says, continuing his barrage. “It’s not my fault you’re stupid as a rock!”

“Hey, I’m _not_ fucking stupid!”

”Are too!”

”Am not!”

”Are _too!_ ”

”I am _not—!_ ”

They’re being stared at again.

They must have missed how loudly they were raising their voices; Momota looks around at once, and when he realizes they’re being watched, he seems baffled by the attention. The emotions flicker over his face almost comically fast. Kokichi smirks at that reaction, and then Momota clears his throat self-consciously, and he takes speedy steps to close the gap between them.

Kokichi lets him approach. Momota digs his hand into the front of his shirt, pulling him close. He's glowering. “Could you shut the fuck up,” he says, and for some reason, it’s just unexpected enough that Kokichi’s composure breaks.

“Nishishi!” he giggles, reaching up to cover his mouth. “Ah, Momota-chaaan! Are you trying to avoid another one of our classic low-down blow-downs?”

”I don’t know what the fuck that means,” Momota says, releasing him. “I just said that I don’t fucking know what _anything_ you say means.”

Instead of responding, Kokichi taps his fingers along the rim of the basket Momota is still holding. Momota looks down to discover the excess of peppers he’d tossed in there absentmindedly, spread in a layer overtop the rest of the contents. He blinks.

”Overkill much?” Kokichi winks. “Mh, I _love_ when you can get people to do stupid things by distracting them!” When Momota meets his eyes, he claps, tilting his head to the side. “Anyway, you must be so slow today because your brain’s gone to mush after spending a whole buncha hours learning Russian survival training, or whatever.”

“...I’m fucking losing it,” Momota responds to that redirect, stepping around Kokichi to offload all the peppers back into their original crate. Kokichi grins at his back as he works, and when he turns back around, he’s still looking a little bit lost.

0 to 100, Kokichi thinks, and 100 to 0. Entertaining as he can make Momota’s ever-repeating reactions.

”So,” Kokichi says, heading back to the onions. “Russian survival training. Right?”

Momota just watches him. “Uh...no,” he says, like he’s not really sure he’s even talking. “I’m...uh, I’m a certified astronaut, man. I’m not doing basic training anymore.”

Kokichi isn’t pleased that Momota doesn’t correct him from saying _Russian survival training_ , but he deals with it.

”Ooh, okay,” he presses, bringing back an onion to set in their basket. When he approaches Momota, he finally seems to snap out of his daze. “Now that you’ve got your fancy astronaut degree, does that mean you don’t have to worry about languages or working out or anything?”

Momota grabs Kokichi’s wrist before he can put his onion down. He pulls a face, which Kokichi returns dubiously. “What the fuck?” he says. “I thought you said you... Oh, fucking _hell_ , don’t tell me it was a lie.”

”Oh, it probably was,” Kokichi shrugs. “I love vegetables! Tell me more about training.”

”I’m gonna punch you through the fucking wall!” Momota says instead, and from there, it only takes them a solid two minutes to be kicked out of the store for disruptiveness.

”Shut up,” Momota says later, marching farther into the city, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

”Hear what?” Kokichi offers from behind him, watching the blue arrow of his navigation app trace their path as they move. “All I said was that we—“

”I _just_ said—“

”—got in a little _hot water_ , and that’s hardly—“

” _Ouma_.”

Kokichi smiles. He increases his pace until he’s skipping alongside Momota, who, by some miracle of God, does not punch him in the face for the rest of their voyage.

-

“I was propositioned,” Maki says through the receiver, and Kaito hardly processes it over the sound of Ouma slamming cabinets, digging through bags, and eventually screaming, “Hey, Momota-chan, tell Harumaki I want her autograph!”

”No!” Kaito says into his phone, then twists it away to shout to Ouma, “About what?”

Then he says aloud to himself, “Wait, fuck.”

”No?” Maki repeats.

”No!” Kaito responds. “No, I—no, like, I didn’t fuckin’ mean _no_. I meant to yell no to Ouma. He wants your autograph, by the way. And—shit, I wasn’t supposed to mention that. What the fuck?” he rambles, then shakes his head to clear it. He's sounding like Shuuichi. “Okay, lemme start over! What were you propositioned about?”

Maki is quiet for a second. Kaito basks in the judgement, trying desperately to focus on that instead of the sudden crashing and yelp that carries out from the kitchen. He cringes, then decides to stare down the group of bags Ouma had thrown onto the table they instant they’d arrived back, too. He’d ignored them in favor of their groceries, which, apparently, are giving him trouble.

”If you’re done with that,” Maki finally says, “it was about a job.”

Kaito perks up in a second. “Wait, really?” he asks. “I mean, already!? Damn, Harumaki, congratulations! That’s fucking great! Unless—“ he stalls, rethinking the tone she’d taken since calling him. “Wait, is it not great?” he tries. “You sound kinda skeptical.”

Maki sighs. His phone distorts it. “I don’t know if it’s great,” she admits. “It’s not for working with kids.”

That’s...okay, that’s weird already. Kaito pulls the phone closer to his ear, then glances back to the kitchen. It’s uncomfortably silent. “Then what’s it for?”

”Working as a bodyguard, basically,” Maki says. “Toujou was the one who propositioned me.”

”Uh...” Kaito says. He’s still got his eyes glued to the entryway of the kitchen. God, the kid is gonna give him an anxiety disorder. “I’m, uh. You know, so.” He waves his hand as if to gesture her on, then realizes she can’t see him. He frowns at himself. “Go ahead.”

Maki doesn’t miss a beat. “You know she has all sorts of weird connections with politicians because she works for several high-profile ones. Apparently, a certain person wanted to hire someone highly trained in defense to be his personal assistant for any public and private appearances. He knew Toujou had just graduated from Hope’s Peak Academy, naturally, and asked if she knew anybody in her class who could fit the bill.”

Kaito is taken aback. “W-Wait,” he stumbles, “so she—?”

”I don’t know how Toujou knew, either,” Maki says. “I assume because of her connections, or something. Maybe she was just nosy.”

With Ouma still silent in the other room—which has gotten to the point of alarming, actually, something is definitely up—Kaito remains cautious with his words. “Well...” he begins, “I mean, damn. That’s a lot to take in.” He screws his face up. “Uh, first off, do you _want_ to work for someone like that? I know you didn’t want to... Uh,” he starts to rephrase, “I know you had your heart set on doing something with your career that wasn’t that.”

”Mhmm. I don’t know,” Maki answers. “Not personally, at least. In terms of payment, the work would be hourly, and Toujou said that benefits could be extended to the orphanage as well.”

”Wait, what?” Kaito interjects. “Fuck, Harumaki, you should’ve mentioned that first!”

”So it’s a really good offer,” Maki continues, ignoring him. “Great, actually. Considering...the orphanage isn’t getting benefits anymore, of course.”

Kaito leans back against the wall, running a hand up through his hair. He takes a deep breath.

“Harumaki,” he says. “What about the hours? Wouldn’t that kind of shit be, like, nonstop work? Not that that’s bad, necessarily, but I know you wanted to take time to care for the kids yourself...”

“Of course it would be a lot of work,” Maki responds, like it’s obvious. She doesn’t answer his other concern. “I have a week to give her an answer.”

Kaito blinks at her tone again. Ever since he’d picked up, Maki has sounded a bit off, and she’s only gotten more and more blunt as they’ve spoken. It’s unusual. Kaito shakes his head.

“Hey, you okay?” he suddenly asks. “You’re not sounding too hot over there. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

Maki is silent for a second. A beat passes, and then she sighs into the phone. “I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting this.” She pauses. “I wanted to let you know about it.”

”Well,” Kaito offers, rubbing the back of his neck, “thanks for keeping me updated, but I’m mostly curious as to how _you_ feel about the whole thing. Do you want to talk about it some more?”

Something catches Kaito’s eye as it rolls out of the kitchen. What the fuck? He turns towards the entrance, and right as he starts to take a step closer, Maki speaks up.

”No,” she says, clipped as ever. “I have to go, actually. I only called to give you an update. Sorry. Bye.”

Kaito freezes as his eyebrows go up. “Oh. Wait, are you—?” he starts, and before he can get in another word, Maki hangs up on him.

He retracts his phone immediately and stares at it, just to verify that—yeah, he didn’t imagine that, the call was completely cut and disconnected. The date and time shine out at him from their place on his lockscreen, and there’s no contact information pulled up where there would be. Almost without thinking, Kaito redials her number, and she instantly denies the call. What?

”Well, this is fucking weird,” he lets out. He pulls up his chat with her.

[8:49 PM]: Hey Harumaki, you good? If you don’t wanna talk that’s fine, but just let me know if you’re OK!

Kaito scrolls through the rest of his messages to find and dial Kaede; he lets the connection ring for about a minute, then eventually hangs up when it sends him to her familiar _“I must be busy right now!”_ voicemail. He shoots her a text as well. He considers trying Shuuichi, but he doubts Maki would’ve told him about the whole thing if she’d only just told Kaito himself, and he isn’t sure if she’d prefer to keep that private or not. He stares at his phone again, caught at an impasse, an odd mix of confused and defeated.

All of that just came totally out of nowhere, and Maki hadn’t sounded comfortable or sure while delivering the news. What the hell? They could’ve spoken more. Why did she hang up like that? She's...not the best with managing her emotions, he knows—of _course_ he knows—but that was out-of-character, even for her. It’s unlike her to be avoidant like that. Or, at least, it’s been unlike her to do that for a while. Kaito idles for a few seconds, the questions and concern turning over in his head along with everything else, before he suddenly comes back to when another object rolls out from the kitchen, hitting into the first one.

Kaito blinks, then takes a step closer.

They’re red potatoes.

...Right.

If his conversation with Maki hadn’t already prepared him for dealing with something completely bizarre, he probably would’ve had a stronger reaction to walking through the doorway and encountering Ouma facedown on the floor. Luckily, there’s no blood surrounding him this time; only a spilled bag of said vegetables he’d sent skidding into the living room.

”What the fuck, man?” Kaito says, blinking down at his unmoving form. “Get the hell up!”

” _Uuuugh_ ,” Ouma groans in response, the sound muffled against the wood of the floor.

”Dude, really?”

” _Uuuugh!_ ”

Kaito leans down, wraps his hand tight in the back of Ouma’s shirt, and yanks. He’s light enough that Kaito actually does manage to pull the top half of his body with him, and Ouma’s eyebrows shoot up when he’s lifted from the floor. He meets Kaito’s eyes, surprise reflected in his face.

” _Oh_ ,” he breathes out, a hand finding his heart. “You _do_ work out!”

Kaito drops him.

Ouma screeches at that, but he does manage to catch himself before he hits the ground. He scrambles up from his hands and knees.

“Real thoughtful, Momota-chan!” Ouma huffs, smoothing some nonexistent wrinkles out of his clothes. Kaito grimaces at them; instead of donning his usual straitjacket and pants combo, Ouma decided to go around in a t-shirt that reads  _DO NOT OPEN_ today _,_ the fabric the same blaring, headache-inducing color as caution tape. And Kaito had thought that the first option was bad enough. “Assaulting your roommate for spilling the beans!”

”These are potatoes,” Kaito scowls, surveying the mess on their floor. “And you _better_ pick ‘em up!”

Ouma snorts. “No, I meant your muscles. And why don’t _you_ pick them up? I’m just a couch-surfer, Momota-chan. You’re the one who owns the lease!”

“You literally just called yourself my roommate!” Kaito counters, throwing his hands up. “And you want me to—what?” He rolls his eyes. “Fucking _pick up_ my muscles?”

Ouma grimaces. ”No, I meant the potatoes. And I’m not _talking_ about your muscles!”

”Yeah, you were! And you didn’t _say_ potatoes!” Kaito fires back. “You said beans!”

Ouma hits his face so hard it makes a sound. “Oh, my Goddd!” he whines, his voice high as he drags his hands down his cheeks. “Momota-chan, try to follow a chain of conversation better!”

”Try to—fucking hell, what?”

“Uuugh!” Ouma recovers the half-filled plastic bag from the floor, then shoulders Kaito aside to move past him. “Out of my way!”

Kaito steps back, huffing in annoyance as Ouma crouches down to scoop up handfuls of potatoes from the floor. He watches for about a second, unimpressed, before he turns back to the table and starts going through their bags.

”Dude, did you even unpack anything?” Kaito asks, squinting at the contents; it’s almost all of the food that they’d bought, still. “Are you telling me you just collapsed in here for five fucking minutes?”

”Uh, it was _four_ _!_ ” Ouma corrects him from the living room, then peeks around the corner to shoot him a knowing look. “And you’re gonna complain about _me_ not working when you were busy arguing with Harukawa-chan?”

Kaito carries a bag over to the fridge, his mouth twisting into a frown. “We weren’t arguing. And stop fucking eavesdropping on me when I’m talking to people!”

”Hmm,” Ouma hums. “No problem. Since you can hardly even find people to talk to!”

Kaito snaps his head over to him. “Fuck off!”

Ouma responds with an innocent smile and a shrug. He ducks back out into the living room, his bag of potatoes still in hand, and Kaito sighs, returning to packing their fridge.

As fucking annoying as he is, Ouma’s still somewhat right about that, at least. Their trip into the city had been much more lively than their aimlessness in the suburbs; the city meant venturing through crowds of people and different, interesting places that weren’t random, lonely markets. Even if Ouma had acted stupid as hell and done things like make faces at babies and try to pet service dogs, something about the atmosphere made dealing with him more tolerable—just like when everyone was together at school, and Kaito didn't have to worry about containing him singlehandedly. Leaving so much activity behind was sort of depressing; yeah, it took a while to return back, and yeah, it had taken a while to get there in the first place, but ambling through alleys and neighborhood streets in the dark—bags on their arms as Ouma complained about all of the weight—left Kaito feeling nothing but annoyed and angry.

The negative emotions had built up and progressed into him getting pretty pissed off as they made it back to the third floor. They’d been there for two days, already—where the hell were all their neighbors? They hadn’t encountered anyone in the hall or even on the elevator. So Kaito had pounded on the door to their left, and then the one to their right, just to see if anyone would answer. And sure, it was late, but it definitely wasn’t _that_ late. Ouma had watched him intently, entirely absorbed with his actions.

”What?” Kaito had asked him, glaring with his fist frozen over the second door. “The hell is up?”

”Nothing,” Ouma responded, his eyes wide in anticipation. Then they suddenly narrowed, and he grinned like a madman. “Go ahead, Momota-chan. You can knock.”

”Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”

”I’m not."

"You are!"

"Just knock!"

So Kaito did, and they received no response from either tenant—if the tenants even existed, at that. For some reason, Ouma seemed immensely disappointed, and his face had dropped into a pout as they walked back in their apartment. Whatever that was about.

Ouma strolls back into the kitchen right as Kaito is finishing unloading their first bag of groceries. Or, _his_ first bag of groceries, since they had picked out some vastly different things. Despite all their arguing, neither of them had compromised on their preferences—which wasn't unexpected, Kaito thinks, considering the empty rap sheet Ouma has for ever compromising with him. Ouma swings the bag of potatoes onto their kitchen table, and they both cringe when it squeaks, grating and sick.

”Oh, this is toootally gonna fall apart within the month,” Ouma judges. Kaito shuts the kitchen door and turns around to see him squatting and inspecting the underneath of the table with a displeased expression on his face. “I dunno anything about craftsmanship, but this thing looks like it’s held together with glue!” Then Ouma meets his eyes and smiles. “Don’t you hate tables that are held together with glue, Momota-chan?”

Kaito ignores that and checks his phone instead. “Sure fucking thing,” he offers, scrolling through his messages. He hasn’t gotten any responses. “But, uh, that shit’s definitely not held together with glue.”

”Hmm,” Ouma hums. “Allegedly, you mean. It might act like it’s not relying on glue, but I still bet it totally is.”

Kaito grimaces, checking some timestamps. Nothing from Kaede or Maki still. “Whatever.”

”In fact,” Ouma continues airily, from somewhere near him, “I bet if it could talk, it would get really snippy with me over nothing. And then it would check its phone compulsively because it always has to be worrying about people to have a sense of self!”

Kaito promptly looks up. That sort of bullshit is sounding like something from earlier. He squints suspiciously at Ouma, now in front of him, who taps a finger to his mouth.

”It looks like I’ve figured out its secret,” Ouma says, his eyes wide and mocking. “Will it admit to the use of glue, now?”

Kaito pockets his phone, then smacks the back of Ouma’s head before he can dodge the blow.

“Ow! Hey!”

”Just shut the fuck up with all that crap already and help me put the food away,” Kaito bites out, turning to grab another bag.

Ouma snorts derisively from behind him when Kaito approaches the fridge. He opens it and gets to work, and after enough seconds, Ouma finally joins, a bag of groceries in his own hand. Kaito can see Ouma watching him from the corner of his eye. A moment passes before he speaks.

“You’re no fun, you know.”

”And you’re not fucking honest!” Kaito counters, piling a bunch of vegetables in the crisper drawer. “You always have to go and make some stupid shit up like that, and it’s annoying as hell. Just say what you actually mean sometime—if you’re going to insult me, do it to my face like a man!”

“Oh, but I like the whole deciphering part of the things I say!” Ouma tells him, pulling a pack of raw beef out of his bag. He frowns at it. “It makes everything so much more interesting, especially since you never know what’s going on.”

Kaito groans, fixing the drawer. “I shouldn’t _have_ to decipher shit from you. Or anyone. You’re the only fucking person out there who has to make whatever you’re trying to say so fucking roundabout.”

Ouma scoffs as if he’s offended by the statement. “I’m just having fun, Momota-chan!” he appeals, shrugging his shoulders. “Lots of fun! You really act like I need a permit to have fun, or something.” He finally turns to Kaito, his hands going to his hips. “Is that it, Momota-chan? You want to see my fun-permit, hmm?”

Instead of meeting his eyes, Kaito glances the other direction to check out the balcony door. It’s so dark that he can’t see anything past it. “You know,” he sighs, “it’s getting pretty fucking late to keep acting like you’re on a whole goddamn bag of coffee.”

When Kaito glances back, Ouma starts to stock the fridge, but he sticks his tongue out at the words. “Ewww! That’s reeeally gross, Momota-chan. You don’t know me at all if you think I’m drinking coffee. Coffee tastes like bleach. Actually," he begins again with purpose, " _bleach_ tastes better!”

Kaito blinks at him. ”You _haven’t_ fucking drank bleach,” he responds, leaning into the fridge when Ouma leans back.

”Yeah, well, that’s what you’d like to think,” Ouma says, standing on his toes to reach over him.

Kaito grimaces at their positions and waits, stuck under him, as Ouma pushes packets of meat back on the top shelf. Angled beneath his arms like that, all Kaito can see is the bright fabric of Ouma’s shirt. Ouma returns to his feet a moment later; Kaito stands back upright and glares at him, but Ouma just smiles and avoids his eyes, humming lightly, as if he didn’t pull that stunt a second ago. His jacket has slipped a bit off his shoulders from the leverage; Kaito blinks at it again, then averts his eyes.

”You know,” he says. “Meat doesn’t go on the top shelf.”

Ouma returns to the table to pick up another bag. ”Hmm? Then fix it.”

Kaito does. He waits another moment until Ouma is beside him again, then glances back at him. They keep this up for about a minute, and then Kaito sees Ouma’s arms drop to his sides.

“Okay,” Ouma sighs, “why do you keep looking at me?”

”What?”

”Looking at me. Why do you keep doing it?”

”I don’t.”

”You do!”

“What the hell does your shirt mean?” Kaito asks without thinking.

The corner of Ouma’s mouth twitches. He blinks, slowly, as if he didn’t hear the question right. “...Huh?”

”Uh...your shirt,” Kaito continues, waving at it. He looks away. “Why the fuck are you wearing something that says ‘Do not open’?”

Ouma tilts his head. “Wait,” he says. “ _You_ get to ask _me_ questions, but I can’t ask about astronaut training?”

”Don’t fucking start that,” Kaito sighs. “I know you don’t actually give a shit.”

”I do!” Ouma objects. “But if you’re so curious, then, whatever.  _Do not open_ ,” he repeats, tracing the print with his finger. He looks up sincerely. “Why do you think I’m wearing it, Momota-chan? It means what it says. I don’t want people to crack my poor, brittle body open like an egg and for all my guts to spill out, so I warn them about it. They might forget they can’t open me without the warning.”

Kaito stares at him.

“What?” Ouma says, pouting. “You think I’m lying about that, huh? Well, there’re no lies here, Momota-chan! It’s my genuine concern!”

For some reason, instead of ignoring him like he wants to, Kaito laughs.

Ouma flinches at the sound. “...What was that?” he asks, skeptically.

”Dude,” Kaito says, stifling his laughter, “it’s not a fucking lie. It’s funny cause it’s actually true. Or, at least,  _I’ve_ thought about punching you about twenty times today. So, yeah. Great warning label.”

Ouma seems to muse over that for a moment, twirling a finger through the ends of his hair, and then he purses his lips. “You’re a real class act, buddy,” he decides.

Kaito snorts. “I don’t fuckin’ know what that means.”

"Ugh—you _never_ do!"

By the time they finish cleaning the kitchen for the night, it’s much later than Kaito would’ve anticipated it being; he stands rooted to the floor of the living room, his phone burning in his pocket, his arms crossed as he watches Ouma fumble with undoing his bed from the couch. He considers—helping out, or something, and then Ouma snaps the legs down too quickly and makes a show out of crying from a fake injury, so Kaito remains stagnant out of spite. Ouma eventually calms down and rolls his eyes at him, then starts going back through his bags of new belongings on the table, none of which he’s actually put away. He catches Kaito’s eye, then waves the pillow he bought in the city at him.

“Check it out, Momota-chan!” Ouma smiles, throwing it onto the bed. “Now I don’t have to steal yours!”

That's enough to break Kaito’s concentration. “What?” he asks, leaning forward.

”Nothing!” Ouma responds quickly, dismissing him with a hand. He looks over at Kaito standing alert near the wall then sighs, loud and longingly, as he pulls his bed together. “Isn’t this just so much fun?” he asks. “We’ve been here for such a short amount of time. Isn’t it still so much like we’re just having a sleepover, Momota-chan? Like we’re not even graduates, and this is just a weekend away together!”

”...No?” Kaito says. That’s...not what it feels like at all. He wonders where the question is coming from; maybe Ouma isn’t processing the reality of spending the next six months together. Kaito, at least, will be preoccupied with work and staying in touch with his friends and family, but he’s not actually sure what Ouma has going on.

Then again, he still doesn’t know for sure why Ouma is even here. It seemed unimportant whenever all he offered was money, but now Kaito is getting kind of curious about it. It’s not like he can ask Ouma about it, though; he already tried that months ago, and being fair, asking Ouma just about  _anything_ would lead to a dead-end answer.

“Well, then don’t even worry about it,” Ouma suggests, pulling his pillowcase into place. “You’ll start to feel it when you figure out that your family hates you and is never returning, and that all your friends have already forgotten about you!”

“That—what the fuck?” Kaito says, kicking farther off the wall to point at him. “Th-That’s not what the hell we were talking about at all!”

”Wasn’t it?” Ouma shrugs, flopping backwards onto the bed. “You’ve been staring at your phone for so long, you’d think that they’ve already abandoned you.”

”Where the hell are all your friends and family, then?” Kaito counters, as if he didn’t just resolve to not question Ouma about things. Great. “You’ll fucking joke about me, but you won’t ever talk about what’s going on with yourself!”

Ouma tilts his head to frown at him. ”And what’s going on with _myself?_ ” he asks. “You sound like you’re trying to pretend to know things about—“

He gets interrupted by Kaito’s ringtone going off, turned up to the highest possible volume. Ouma reaches to cover his ears dramatically like he’s hearing a plane engine instead of a cellphone, or some shit. Kaito rolls his eyes and pulls the device close to check his screen.

It’s Kaede.

Kaito starts at that—he’s been waiting to talk to her for a while now. Fuck whatever Ouma had been going on about regarding his personal life; if he’s going to be an annoying jackass just to be one, then he can do that shit by himself. Kaito heads for the hallway.

Ouma sits up on his bed. “Hey!” he calls, his voice indignant. “Where’re you going?”

”To answer this!” Kaito responds, continuing on. “Don’t fuck anything up!” He calls back, “I might be on this for a while, so if you wanna shower before me, go knock yourself out.”

“Uh, I showered earlier!” Ouma cries, right as Kaito gets a hand on his door. “I’m making ramen, instead. And _you_ can’t have any!”

”Wouldn’t want any, dude!” Kaito calls, slamming himself in.

Muffled, outside of his room, Ouma’s voice still manages to ring, “And if that’s Harukawa-chan, I still want her autograph!”

Kaito shakes that off and answers his phone. He’s got a ton of question to bombard Kaede with considering that Maki won’t call him back, and any business from home will always preside over worrying about what some fucked up kid wants to lie about, no matter where or who he lives with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently, i decided to want a Really detailed foundation. oops. so this is what slow burn feels like...
> 
> this would probably be more fun to read comprehensively than chapter by chapter, but thanks to anyone following it this way currently!


	4. April III

The next few days pass in a more boring fashion than Kokichi would’ve preferred. Momota follows the same patterns Tuesday and Wednesday of waking up early, going to the Space Center, coming back late, making food, then disappearing to talk on his phone late into the night. Around 11:00 PM on Wednesday, Momota leaves his room to heat up leftover pork and rice he’d prepared the day before; it’s the first deviation from the new schedule he’s got himself into. Kokichi walks to the entryway of their kitchen when he realizes their overhead light had never flicked on, and he blinks in surprise when he finds Momota eating at the table in the dark, relying on the flashlight of his cellphone—which he seems incredibly distracted by—to provide him any ability to see whatsoever. He looks up when Kokichi turns the actual lights on, his food halfway to his mouth; it’s then that Kokichi realizes Momota is not only sitting in the dark eating food, but sitting in the dark eating food while shirtless and with his hair down and disheveled.

Kokichi actively ignores the way his ears burn at that and returns Momota’s stare, blankly. It’s the beginning of spring—it’s not even warm enough to be going around without clothes. What the hell?

Momota sets his food down. “Uh.”

”You know,” Kokichi says, “you really do look like Bigfoot. Hunched over in the dark, messy hair, imposing...all while shoveling a whole bunch of pork into your mouth. Hey, tell me. You _really_ thought the yeti jokes were uncalled for?”

Momota gives him the finger and turns back to his phone. “Fuck off. I’m busy.”

”If you could talk this whole time, then why haven’t any of the cryptid hunters gotten audio of your voice?”

”Fuck off!” Momota says louder, holding his phone to his face with both hands so as to block him out.

Avoidance. The timeless childish move. Kokichi hits the light switch and leaves.

”Hey!”

”Get it yourself, Bigfoot!” Kokichi calls back. Then he puts his face in a blanket for about ten minutes, trying to delete all images of that encounter from his mind. It’s futile. How awful. Momota hits the back of his head with a pillow when he walks past the couch to return to his room.

At least, Kokichi figures, he can stop questioning if Momota works out.

On Thursday evening, Momota returns from training a bit earlier than usual. When he opens the door, Kokichi is hunched halfway off the couch and weakly swiping at his duffel bag. It’s not a genuine attempt to pick the thing up, but Momota must think it is, because he snorts, “Really?” then grabs it and drops it on him. Kokichi huffs at the gesture and pointedly refuses to unzip it while Momota stands near him. Momota eventually rolls his eyes and walks to the kitchen.

”Dude, I don’t care about what sort of ugly clothes you’ve got stashed away in that thing,” he calls. Kokichi hears the fridge open. “Ugh. Did you finish the rest of the pork I had in here?”

”There was hardly any left,” Kokichi returns, “since you went all Sasquatch on the leftovers last night.”

Kokichi _did_ finish the pork, but mostly because he was curious as to how Momota’s cooking would taste. Very bland was the consensus. A bare minimum meal. Kokichi drowned his portion in salt.

”Also,” he continues, “my clothes aren’t ugly! You just wouldn’t know because I’ve run out of them already.”

”What?” Momota calls.

”I don’t have any clean clothes left!” Kokichi repeats.

Three seconds later, Momota is staring out at him, one hand against the wall. His mouth is open.

”...What?” Kokichi frowns. He sits up and pushes his duffel bag off of himself. “What’s _that_ face about?”

”Holy shit,” Momota responds, like he’s had an earth-shattering revelation. “You don’t even have a fucking dresser. You’ve been keeping all your clothes in your bag?”

”Duh!” Kokichi says, patting it. “Where _else_ would I have been keeping them?”

Momota forces him out to go buy a dresser. They shoot straight into the city on the path they’d taken days ago, and they return with a DIY structure that’s really small and shitty.

”I can’t _believe_ you wouldn’t splurge on me,” Kokichi says, sitting on the floor with pieces spread around him. “I _said_ we could go 75/20 on something more expensive.”

”I don’t have that kind of money to drop,” Momota grumbles, fumbling with the instructions. “And where the hell would the missing five percent of that even come from?”

”Wedding gifts from when we finally tie the knot. And why _don’t_ you have that kind of money to spend? Is JAXA underpaying their pet project, hm? If only he would tell me about his training.”

Momota hits him with a screw.

”Ah. You wound me, sir.”

”Look, man, we’re never fucking getting married—“

”Oh, aren’t we?”

”—but in this theoretical scenario, why the hell could we only cover five percent of the price on a damn dresser?”

Kokichi holds a panel up to study. “Because almost all of the money we’d get would be funneled straight towards our bouncy castle fund.”

”...Uh huh,” Momota answers dubiously. He turns the instructions sideways and pulls them closer. “You didn’t happen to pack a Phillips-head in your bag of assorted shit when you came here, did you?”

Kokichi sighs. “I thought you’d remember I said I don’t do handyman stuff!”

It’s a terrifying idea that Momota proposes, but they end up inside one of the autopart shops that’s closest to their apartment. Sure enough, near the checkout, they find what they’re looking for; they buy their screwdriver and hurry off before they can spend more time trapped in a fort of tires.

When they get back to their building and approach the elevator, there’s an older man in a suit waiting for it already. He has his hands folded in front of him, and he’s talking into a bluetooth headset that’s attached to his ear. Momota’s eyes light up; Kokichi almost goes into panic mode. He’s _not_ about to be associated with some clown who’s prepared to ruin strangers’ business calls. Right before the elevator opens up, Momota puts a hand on the guy’s shoulder; Kokichi, in turn, gets a hand on the inside of Momota’s elbow. Momota turns to glare at him and therefore misses the look that the other resident sends him. He brushes Momota’s hand off, and they all get in the elevator, Kokichi and Momota still shooting daggers at each other.

Momota tries again when the doors close. Kokichi steps on his foot, but it must be ineffective, because Momota still manages to greet the guy.

”Hey,” he says, putting another hand on the man’s shoulder, because he has no sense of personal space. “I wasn’t sure if—“

The man looks at him in some alarm, then points at his headset. He turns away and continues talking.

Momota’s face drops. Kokichi giggles almost hysterically into his sleeve. The doors to the second floor open, and the man steps past them to exit.

”Ah,” he says to whoever he’s talking to, right as Momota angrily hits the close button. “ _What_ did he do to a cabbage?”

The elevator moves again, but Kokichi and Momota just stare at each other, befuddled. Momota rubs his chin right as Kokichi’s eyebrows go up.

”Did he say...”

”He totally put his dick in a cabbage!” Kokichi exclaims, and Momota looks both like he’s going to keel over and throw up.

When they finish putting the dresser together later that evening, they push it awkwardly to the corner of the living room beside the lamp. It’s far more cramped than comfortable at this point, but there’s not much that can be done about it. Kokichi throws his laundry in the first floor’s machine—his initial laundry detergent purchase comes in handy for the second time—while Momota makes himself dinner. He returns to their apartment a few minutes later, and he finds Momota laughing on his phone. It’s a bit of a turnaround from whatever’s been happening with his phone recently; the past few days, he’s sounded more concerned than amused while on it.

Something must be looking up, then.

Good for him, or whatever.

It doesn’t deter Kokichi from stealing the first sandwich Momota cooks that night. He’s sure he must be developing some sort of permanent bruise on the back of his head or something, considering Momota has whacked him there so much.

By the time the weekend rolls around, their apartment has officially started looking less like a display room and more like an area where people actually live—though, that’s not counting their memento on the floor. Kokichi arranges things to his liking, then changes them back again; their kitchen sink seems to have an ever-growing pile of dishes, and both of them continue putting it off; their unit bathroom starts to get a bit messy, and it’s because Momota has so many stupid hair products. That’s an embarrassing one. 

It also becomes obvious that with no need to go to work for a day, Momota has no clue what to do with himself.

Kokichi, over a bowl of cereal, watches Momota pace restlessly in the morning. He locks himself in his room to talk on his phone, but emerges soon after, still as antsy as before. He cooks eggs. He waters his plants. He reads part of some scary-looking technology book, and then he paces again. Before the clock even reaches noon, Kokichi is interrupted from playing a game on his phone by Momota, on his second attempt at reading, slamming the pages of his book back together and leaning out of the kitchen to look at him.

Kokichi lowers his phone and raises an eyebrow.

Momota says nothing.

Kokichi blinks. “So... Is this an intimidation tactic, or are you going to speak? Because the first one isn’t really working all that much.”

”Dude,” Momota breathes, a hand on the back of his neck. “Uh. You wanna go do something?”

Kokichi blinks again.

That afternoon, the two of them discover that not only is their building surrounded by auto part shops, but also by beauty salons. Walking around the suburbs is much more interesting when you can see where you’re going and what you’re encountering, Kokichi decides; by the second hour of their trip, they’ve gone far enough to have uncovered a car dealership—a useful placement for one, considering the market for repairs—some extensive wedding shop—which warrants some more engagement jokes, to Momota’s dismay—and, as they come upon it, a clothing outlet called _Right On_. Kokichi checks his phone to monitor how far they’ve traveled right as Momota crosses his arms and lifts his head to study the sign on the building.

”You know,” Momota sighs, “I think you could really fuckin’ benefit from being near a place like this.”

” _Near_ ,” Kokichi scoffs, squinting at his screen. “Try again, buddy! We’re about five kilometers away from the apartment at this point!”

”...Wait, fuck, are we really?”

Kokichi clicks his tongue. “No.”

Momota stares at him, then swipes his phone away in a second.

”H-Hey! Momota-chan! That’s _thief_ behavior!”

”Get over it!” Momota tells him, turning away and holding his phone up high so Kokichi can’t reach it. What a bastard move. It doesn’t take long for him to turn back with a scowl on his face. ”We’re hardly a single fucking kilometer from our place,” he says, pushing Kokichi’s phone back in his hand. “You had to lie about some shit like that?”

Kokichi rolls his eyes and pointedly wipes his phone off on his pants. Gross. “Are you insulting my way of life, Momota-chan? Because that’d be pretty harsh considering I’ve never insulted you for having hair like that.”

“Huh? Dude, you insult me for it every fucking day!” Momota counters, his fists clenching.

“Oh, do I really? I don’t even recall!“

”Yeah, you definitely fucking do!”

Kokichi, ignoring Momota’s frustration entirely, glances back up at the sign and purses his lips. “Well, I guess we just remember things differently! Anyways, I think I don’t need to buy any actual clothes anymore. I’m pretty stocked up!” he smiles, gesturing to the shirt he’s wearing for the afternoon. It’s an abomination of bug-patterned fabric that’s cut jaggedly at the bottom. He stole it from Gonta not all too long ago and fixed it himself. With safety scissors.

Momota grimaces at it, and then he shakes his head. “Whatever.” He looks up and frowns at Kokichi. “Hey, how come you’ve stopped wearing your straitjacket so much?”

Kokichi lifts his phone. “My whaaat?” he drawls.

”Your straitjacket, dude. You wore that weird-ass thing to school nearly every single day for three years, but I’ve only seen you wear it out once since we’ve been here. Is there a reason for that?”

”...What an insightful question,” Kokichi comments, zooming out on his map. He watches the different landmarks pop up as he scrolls. “The answer is that you care too much about my fashion, and it’s probably because you care too much about _me_ in general. Get your own life!”

Momota smacks the back of his head. “I’ve _got_ my own life, fucker!”

”Ow! Hey, Momota-chan! It’s not my fault you’re projecting because you don’t have enough shirts for yourself!”

”What? I-I have enough shirts for myself!”

”Oh, do you? You’ve neglected wearing them recently, then!”

”No I haven’t! The fuck are you talking about?”

”Nishishi! Momota-chan is too much of a dummy to realize what I’m talking about!”

”Listen, jackass—!”

They go on for some time, still planted outside the front doors of the building. Despite both their ardent appeals, Kokichi refuses to take the first step inside the boutique, and Momota begrudgingly follows after him when he trots the other direction.

When they arrive back at their apartment later in the evening, they sit around for a bit before Kokichi decides that _he’s_ going to make dinner and that Momota needs to take it easy. Momota groans from the couch and goes over his science book again while Kokichi finds a clean pot in a cabinet—a miracle, truly—and tears blocks of ramen open to drop into the water. He waits for a few minutes until it boils, and he’s humming along to the crackling when Momota joins him.

“Momota-chan!” Kokichi greets. “Funny seeing you around here. I thought you were saving up energy to prepare yourself for eating instant noodles!”

“Tch, as if I’d need to do that!” Momota responds, taking a spot at the sink next to the stove. They’re shoulder to shoulder—or, shoulder to arm—as Kokichi pours flavor packets into the pot and Momota starts running water over their pile of dirty dishes. He reaches into the bottom cabinet to pull out a bottle of dish soap, and Kokichi raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, are you actually rinsing the dishes off?” he asks. “That’s unexpected. I thought we would just share straight out of the pot.”

”That’s why I’m fucking cleaning,” Momota says, taking to scrubbing the plates.

Kokichi rolls his eyes. How dramatic. They bump into each other frequently as they work.

Kokichi isn’t sure what to make of the whole thing. It’s been an odd few days of adjustment together; there’s been minor incidents and altercations driven by their typical animosity—the kind they had in school, where they would argue so much that someone else would have to intervene to stop them—but for the most part, they’ve kind of...ignored any sort of tension. Or, there really hasn’t been much. Maybe it has to do with a desire to not be at each other’s throats so soon, but instead of being overwhelmed by hatred, the most that’s passed between them is annoyance and short-lasting anger. In fact, wandering around for hours with each other as company made Kokichi feel like the only thing between them was some temporary truce, or reluctant solidarity; they’re the only people they have out of an entire city. Instead of expressing contempt, they’ve been weirdly tolerable of each other.

He chances a glimpse at Momota out of the corner of his eye, washing dishes and wiping them off with paper towels. Poorly. No matter what they’re doing, though, Kokichi is pretty sure that the current atmosphere won’t last. Momota can only ignore tension for so long before he bursts, and Kokichi can lay the tension on at any moment he likes. He knows this. He knows it can go vice-versa, and he knows that it can happen without either of them meaning to. He knows that if it comes down to it, their relationship can be like throwing a grenade on top of a landmine; even if both the explosions are delayed, they will come eventually, and they will be double as lethal.

But not now, Kokichi thinks, stirring his wooden spoon around their dinner. For now, it feels like there’s not a time limit hanging above them, and they can just be roommates who are acquaintances and interact out of necessity. Chances are that’ll change before they can realize, but they can just ride out what’s happening for as long as possible. And what’s happening is...fine.

Then Momota says, “How the fuck did curry paste stain a goddamn bowl so much?” and Kokichi considers the idea that he might be overreacting. Or not. He wonders what Momota’s thinking. Then he pushes all those thoughts from his mind.

The sun is hidden behind rolling clouds when they take their newly-cleaned bowls and lean against the railing of their balcony, overlooking the street below them. It’s chilly, and there’s an odd quality to the air; Kokichi wonders if it means rain is impending. He brings a noodle to his mouth right as Momota sighs.

”Did you dump out all the fuckin’ broth?” Momota asks, whisking the contents of his bowl around. “I thought you were supposed to eat that part.”

”Mh, I just think it’s pretty useless!” Kokichi shrugs, going for another bite. “Besides, do you even eat ramen enough to have an opinion on its presentation? It’s not like it’s fine cuisine.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who buys this shit. Just thought I’d fuckin’ ask.”

A breeze ruffles Kokichi’s hair, and he pushes a strand behind his ear so it doesn’t get in his way. He looks to Momota to confirm that, as expected, his hair hasn’t budged an inch in the wind. Whatever he says, Kokichi will always be convinced that his gel must be made of glue, or something. Or rubber cement. That seems like a reasonable option.

Really, it’s just definitely weird that Momota styles his hair the way that he does. It’s not like it makes him look better, or whatever. It makes him look worse, if anything. If he wanted to look better, he should just wear it down, Kokichi thinks.

But maybe that’s not important to him. Or maybe he’s just blind and hasn’t realized it yet.

Momota must notice him staring, because he makes a face. ”Are you looking at me like that for a reason, dude?” he asks. “If you’ve got a problem, then say so.”

Kokichi blinks. His eyes move to Momota’s hands. “Do you always slurp so loudly when you’re eating? You sound like you’re drowning over there.”

Momota starts. “Hey! I-I’m not fucking drowning! It’s just like—well, like, how come you _don’t_ slurp so fucking loud, huh?”

”Wooow, is that really your rebuttal?” Kokichi cringes, turning to face the street. Nothing extraordinary has happened, but the tree branches below them are starting to ruffle along with the wind. The sky is only getting more and more gray; there has to be rain rolling in, again. They haven’t had two nice days in a row since being here. “And, hey—if you’re asking so many questions again, then how come I don’t get to ask about training?”

”Because you don’t care!” Momota answers. “Why the hell act like you wanna know what I do when you’re just gonna tell me it’s dumb and makes no damn sense?”

Kokichi pouts, tilting forward to press his midsection against the railing. “That’s not it at all, Momota-chan. But, fine. If you don’t wanna talk about the Space Center, then why don’t you talk about space in general? I could use some entertainment.”

”The hell does that mean?”

”I dunno—we need something to talk about, and I’d eat my foot before telling you something personal. So talk about something cool, but generic!”

”Space isn’t generic!” Momota fires back, nearly choking around a mouthful of ramen. He coughs and swallows awkwardly before he starts again. “And why the hell are you making sure to keep everything so private?”

”About what?” Kokichi hums.

”About yourself. You’re not even hiding it anymore, dude—you just said that shit out loud.”

”Whaaat?” Kokichi asks. “I haven’t even been talking. Who are _you_ talking to?”

”Quit fucking around—!”

”Juuust kidding! I _have_ been saying words—you got me. But now it’s your turn to! Tell me about space, okay? Anything you can think of. Oh, but preferably aliens! Momota-chan, are there any formal procedures to get in touch with aliens?”

Momota looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm. Kokichi giggles at that and turns back to his food. Far away, there might be a rumble of thunder.

“Or, if there’s not any formal procedures, then I guess we can just wait for the rain.”

“You’re pretty damn ambitious, aren’t you?” Momota asks, shaking his head. Ridiculous how he misses the irony. “I mean, you’re acting like we know there’s aliens out there. Well, there definitely are, but no one’s got a clue as to where or how to actually contact ‘em. So, of course there’s no formal fuckin’ procedures, dude. But we’ve tried.”

Kokichi clicks his chopsticks together. “If you say that they’re still _technically_ undiscovered, then how come you’re so sure they exist?”

”Cause of how big the universe is,” Momota answers easily. “We’ve searched a ton of places for life already, but we still haven’t come up with anything. But, it’s like, of course we haven’t. Even with all we’ve done, the portion of space we’re looking at still is kinda like,” he pauses to think, Kokichi assumes, then says, “like a bucket of water compared to the ocean. You think it could be a lot when you look at it, and maybe it is, but when you realize how much you’re missing, it just looks like a joke in comparison.”

”So you’d consider it easy to find a fish in the ocean, but there’s not a big chance of finding a fish in a bucket,” Kokichi simplifies.

”Right,” Momota confirms. “And like I said, we’ve tried to put shit out there already. And we have. There’s human stuff like the Arecibo Message and the Voyager Golden Record way beyond us.”

”Mh, the what and the what?”

”Arecibo Message and Voyager Golden Record. The Arecibo Message was a radio broadcast projected into space in the 70s that had all kinds of basic information about Earth encoded in it. Honestly, it’s kinda overly fucking complicated, but the hope was that intelligent life would be able to figure it out. I dunno, though—I’d consider humans pretty fuckin’ intelligent, but I don’t think the average person could even understand it with the way it was made. Apparently it was more of a stunt to display the remodeling of the telescope itself.”

”Then break it down,” Kokichi says, ignoring the last part. “What’s on it?”

”Uh, there’s seven main parts when decoded,” Momota recalls, his expression becoming concentrated. “Numbers one through ten, atomic numbers of the elements of DNA, formulas for nucleotides, the double helix structure of DNA...” he turns towards the sky. “There’s an image of a human, our solar system with Earth, and the Arecibo telescope. So if anything encounters it, it knows who we are and where the broadcast was coming from. If it can figure out the binary, cause there’s like, 1700 digits in the whole thing. And it’s gotta reach something in the first place! It was shot out towards M13—which is a cluster of stars, you know, cause we’re assuming life would need that base, or at least they were when this happened—but it’ll be around 25,000 lightyears before it makes it there. And then if anything _does_ ever come across if, it’ll take 25,000 lightyears to make it back. Assuming they don’t have time-bending technology or some shit. Ha, that’d be kinda cool, though! Even if it was for publicity or to celebrate repairs or crap like that, I’m still pretty psyched to know we’ve got a message that you can kinda understand out there. But maybe aliens won’t even understand numbers or binary code...” Momota finally blinks down at Kokichi, the smile falling from his face. “Uh, are you okay?”

Kokichi blinks back.

Momota snorts. “Didn’t mean to disappoint you or anything, man. I haven’t discovered ‘em yet! But if you think aliens are so cool, then you should read up on SETI. They take donations!”

”No,” Kokichi says, still looking at him. “It’s...not that.” And it’s _not_. “Momota-chan, how do you even, like,  _remember_ all of that stuff?”

Momota, as if he didn’t just list off all kinds of space history at a rapid-fire pace, just scratches his chin. “Uh,” he says. “What do you mean?”

”What do I _mean?_ ” Kokichi repeats.

”Yeah,” Momota shrugs. “What do you mean, how do I remember? I just do. Why wouldn’t I? Not knowing something as simple as that would be like—not knowing something as simple as breathing,” he decides. He looks into his half-empty bowl and pulls a face. “Or eating.” Then he looks up. “Why, do you wanna hear more? The Voyager Golden Record is something completely different! I think that one’s a lot fucking cooler.”

Kokichi squints. For some reason, he wasn’t expecting all of that.

Huh.

He promptly ignores the nagging feeling in his chest, and the bitter taste in his mouth.

”I’ve told Kaede about it, and she feels the same,” Momota says, leaning some over the railing. “It’s an actual physical record with all kinds of noises stored on it. Well, that’s got stuff to decipher too, but it’s also got languages, animals, and different kinds of music! If you pull some shit up online, you can hear the different audio clips they decided to go with. Isn’t that cool as hell?”

”...Sure,” Kokichi agrees, quietly lifting a noodle to his mouth. He pauses. “But I think you’re a total nerd over this, Momota-chan.”

Momota scoffs. “I thought you always liked to call me an idiot.”

”Well, that too,” Kokichi smiles. “You can be both at once. What an accomplishment! Momota Kaito, the world’s first imbecile and junior astronaut, wrapped into one. Like mayonnaise on rice!”

The wind, in the distance, is rustling some wind chimes. The swaying of tree branches is starting to get loud. “Don’t call—!” Momota starts, then pauses and recoils. “Wait, like fucking _what?_ ” he asks.

”You should tell me about the Voyager thing inside,” Kokichi says, turning his face to the clouds. A raindrop hits his cheek. “Unless you want to get poured on out here. It’s your choice, Momota-chan. I’ll do whatever.”

Heavier raindrops begin to fall as Momota is looking at him, and whatever he was planning to say turns into, “Oh, shit,” instead, and Kokichi follows after him when he finally takes refuge indoors.

With the sun blocked from the sky and no lights turned on, their apartment resembles a jail cell more than anything. Momota makes his way to the lamp in the corner of the room, and by the time he get it on, the drizzle outside has already become a downpour, as quick as a snap of the fingers. Momota raises his eyebrows at the glass door, watching the drops of rain pound off of it repeatedly and stream down the balcony.

”Here comes your ocean,” Kokichi says, following his eyes.

Momota snorts. He turns to the kitchen. “Yeah, maybe.” 

”...But here’s the other thing,” Kokichi says, following close on his heels. “What’s the point of contacting aliens if we can’t even have sex with them?”

Momota turns to him from the stove, his face totally baffled. ” _Huh?_ ”

”Nishishi! Don’t look so stunned! It’s only just—“

”What the _fuck_ are you asking!?”

”—a questiooon! Don’t get your parties in a bunch, either! I have—“

”C’mon, dude! Do you have to fucking ruin everything with this kind of shit!?”

”—a genuine curiosity,” Kokichi finishes. “Don’t you?”

For the next thirty minutes, thankfully, their conversation is steered towards nonsense. It’s almost fun. At least, it’s more fun than hearing about actual space talk, Kokichi decides, stringing along theoretical arguments until they both grow tired. He discovers that Momota does not condone having sex with aliens, but if it were a necessity, that someone could do it if they wanted to. He also discovers that Momota doesn’t condone _fighting_ with aliens, despite the fact that Momota condones fighting with just about anything else to get a result. But, if there were a malicious invasion and worst came to worst, then Momota would fight them, sure. And he’d win, _allegedly_. He’d just prefer to talk to them first instead of courting or killing them. Weird. What useless information.

When Momota goes to bed later that night and leaves Kokichi alone in the living room, he listens to the rain for some time before sitting up and searching for his headphones in the dark. Once he finds them, he plugs them into his phone and, taking Momota’s advice, searches up the Voyager Golden Record online. Several different articles come up; he switches the results to show video clips only. One of the first recordings that’s listed is a song by some American man, titled  _Dark Was The Night_. Kokichi frowns at that, then clicks on it curiously.

It’s a strange tune.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. The music plays in his ears over the rain, and he folds his hands over his chest. Kokichi thinks of being lost alone in the stars, no one else within lightyears of him, with his only hope of living contact being some strange, binary radio broadcast that he cannot comprehend.

It’s a strange feeling.

He falls asleep with the song on loop.

-

Maki accepts her offer from Toujou, and Shuuichi’s office begins to overflow with requests that he tackle homicides instead of infidelities. Kaito listens to them over the phone for the better part of a week, and him and Kaede do their best to offer support where they can—even if Kaito is farther away, and can’t give an _actual_ helping hand like he’s used to. Distance is no match for his fervor, though, and he does everything he can to encourage them through it.

”I’m...not sure,” Shuuichi admits, on a call with just Kaede and Kaito. “You both know how I feel about working with murders. Taking a case like that again...”

“I know, Saihara-kun,” Kaede tells him, her words sincere. “This is always your choice to make, and we’ll support you no matter what decision you come to. I just thought...”

”Shuuichi, people aren’t requesting this shit out of you just for kicks, or whatever!” Kaito says. “I know you’re convinced that you’ll get saddled with some pretty fucked up cases again, but the chances of that happening is low. You just gotta trust in what you’re searching for, and nothing can touch you, even if it is kinda screwed! Right?”

” _Is_ it right?” Shuuichi asks. “Retaliations are always possible, Momota-kun.”

Kaito snorts. “Not when I’m fucking around!” he assures.

For a moment, Shuuichi and Kaede are both silent on the other lines, and Kaito catches his mistake a second too late.

”Oh, fuck,” he says. “Wait. Uh... Okay, what I meant is that you can call me if there’s ever a problem! Your problems are my problems, Shuuichi, and I won’t hesitate to run straight back home if some shady criminal threatens you! You know I’ll personally kick anyone’s ass if they try shit like that!”

”Momota-kun,” Kaede sighs, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “I get what you’re saying, but there’s no way you can skip training for something like that!”

”Then I’ll whoop their ass over the phone!” Kaito decides. “Shuuichi, gimme a call, and I’ll set them straight!”

”Eh?” Kaede says. “That’s really your solution?”

”I have to come up with a response to some of these soon,” Shuuichi says. “I—appreciate the advice, but...”

”Oh!” Kaede says. “Of course. I’d say Harumaki could be a solution to the problems you’re planning for, but she’s been off with Toujou-san so much...”

”Shuuichi, you know you’re still my sidekick, right?” Kaito asks. “If you help more people, you’re always doing the right thing. I wish I could be there in person, but just because you’re alone out there doesn’t mean you have to worry so much! We still all share burdens, so don’t ever doubt yourself!”

For another moment, Shuuichi is silent over the line, and then he responds, “That’s...kind, Momota-kun, but I’m _not_ alone!”

Oh, shit, Kaito realizes.

”Wait, I keep throwing myself off!” Kaito adds, and he hears Kaede giggle over his voice. “It’s, uh, probably cause I’ve been focused on training so much. And getting settled.”

”Or dealing with Ouma-kun,” Kaede suddenly adds, and Kaito frowns. “How is he? The last you mentioned of him was the whole fake blood incident... He hasn’t done anything else, has he?”

”He’s fine,” Kaito dismisses, rolling his eyes. “Fucker’s been doing the kind of shit you’d expect.”

”Wait, what kind of stuff?” Kaede asks.

”But this isn’t about that!” Kaito continues. “It’s about Shuuichi. And he shouldn’t be so scared!”

For some days, their conversations revolve in circles of doubts and anxieties, but it finally comes to a resolution. Shuuichi, after much deliberating, decides to take a homicide case from the local police. Kaito gets Kaede and, when he can, Maki on the phone with him to make sure that they’ll be there to have his back the whole way through. They agree wholeheartedly, and Maki tells him to stop screaming so much, but at least he gets through to all of them.

Still, he can’t help but be a little concerned when he’s not around. He’s so far away, and it can’t be helped; he can only trust that Kaede and Maki are offering as much support to Shuuichi as they can, and that Kaede and Shuuichi are offering as much support to Maki as they can. On top of his own support, which he still sends as frequently as possible. Wednesday of the following week, the four of them finally get to take a group call together, and Kaito walks out of his room on the phone, talking to everyone passionately. It takes about a minute in the kitchen before Ouma stomps in and hits him with a potato chip.

”Hey!” Kaito complains, brushing it off of him.

”Hey what?” Kaede asks.

”Don’t throw your junk at me!”

”Momota-kun? Is someone throwing junk at you?”

”Ouma,” Maki says simply, and Kaede makes a sound of recognition.

”Momota-chaaan!” Ouma whines, throwing another potato chip. “God, you’re so _loud!_ Can’t you keep your preaching contained to your bedroom!? If I _wanted_ to listen to the back of my cereal box, I’d just read it!”

”Fuck off!” Kaito responds, throwing the chip back. “This is my apartment, too! You’re not the only one who lives here!”

”Are you and Ouma-kun fighting?” Shuuichi asks. “Momota-kun, I thought you said things had been fine.”

”Ooh, but I wish I were!” Ouma trills. “Then I wouldn’t have to worry about getting charged extra for pet ownership!” He throws one more chip before vanishing. Kaito growls in frustration, and when he heads again to his bedroom, Ouma is on the couch, protecting the back of his head with a pillow. He sticks his tongue out. Kaito smacks his shoulder instead.

”Things are totally fine, Shuuichi. Especially when the kid minds his own fucking business!”

”That’s never,” Maki says. Kaede laughs, and Kaito smiles to himself.

Conversations with his friends have been growing a bit more sparse, Kaito realizes as he shuts the door, but that’s not unexpected. They all have their own things going on, and they’re all Ultimate students with demanding and strict futures lined up ahead of them. But, he thinks, it’s fine that they can’t talk as much as they used to be able to; it just makes it more fun when they can. Besides, they’ll all be coming to visit at the end of May, and with the demands and hours required for his training, he’s sure the days will fly by until then.

And when he sees Maki and Shuuichi in person, he can hug them both and reassure them that he’s there for them.

”Anyway,” Maki continues, her voice less curt, “what are you doing tomorrow, Momota?”

”Tomorrow?” Kaito repeats, emptying a bottle of water onto his forget-me-nots. “Uh, I’m going to training, like I always do. Maybe getting groceries later. Fuck, I’m still looking for a good gym around here! There’s some in the city, but that’s a pretty long-ass walk, and the closest one I found had some sketchy online reviews! Some shit about mold or whatever.” He moves to his spider plant. “What about you, Harumaki? How’s Toujou been? She working you to death yet?”

”...Are you serious?” Maki says. “Momota, did you hear me?”

Kaito stops. “Uh. What? Yeah, course I did. I answered you!”

Shuuichi laughs a bit stiffly. “Momota-kun!” he says. “I think Harukawa-san was asking about your birthday.”

“My—oh, shit! It’s the fucking 12th tomorrow!?”

He’s met with a chorus of disbelief.

”Momota-kun?”

”Momota-kun—!”

”You’re joking. You forgot—“

”Jeez, did you actually—“

”Really?”

”—your own birthday?”

”—lose track of days that badly?”

”Hey!” Kaito barks. “Hey, calm down! I—fuck, I didn’t forget my own birthday, Harumaki! And—of course I didn’t lose track of days! Okay, well, maybe I lost track of days. But that’s not the point!”

”That’s completely the point!” Kaede argues. “I wish we were there with you... Do you really have no plans to celebrate?”

”I—I totally have plans to celebrate!” Kaito falters. “Uh. Like...”

They wait.

”Okay, so I don’t have plans to celebrate—“

”Momota!”

”Hey, Momota-kun!”

”—but I’ll definitely do something! Holy shit, guys, c’mon! 19 isn’t that important, anyways. I’m celebrating my birthday by becoming a day closer to reaching the stars!”

“I’m sending you money,” Maki sighs. “Buy yourself a card, at least.”

”For my own birthday?” Kaito asks. He thinks about it for a second. “Nah, no way. Really, Harumaki! All of you! It’s really not that important. Besides, I’m getting my present right now by getting to talk to all of you!”

”A-Ah,” Shuuichi stumbles, “Momota-kun!”

Kaito laughs at the reaction. It’s about another hour before all of them have to disperse, but it’s enough time to lift his spirits fully and have him in a great mood for the rest of the night. He takes an early shower, then goes to make a late dinner in the kitchen. Ouma’s upside down on the couch when he walks by, playing a loud game on his 3DS, and Kaito pauses to frown at him for the incident earlier.

Ouma looks up at his face. Then at his hair. “ _Pet rent_ ,” he sings, and Kaito tells him to fuck off before continuing.

It’s gonna be a strange birthday without his friends or his grandparents around, Kaito thinks, awkwardly dicing cabbage on a ceramic plate. Living has been strange in general; the apartment has been a trial-and-error ordeal so far. He was sure he’d packed just about everything he’d need to get along, but it’s in the moments like these—when he has no cutting board—that he realizes some details still haven’t quite come together. Ouma reminds him of their missing curtains everyday, still. Kaito snorts. Maybe he can buy some of the missing shit for his birthday, instead.

Ouma strolls into the kitchen not long after, ramming his DS repeated with the stylus. Kaito glances over at him, and his face is screwed up in concentration, the console almost touching his nose as he hits it. A sound blares suddenly, and Ouma beams and pulls the screen away from him to wave the DS at Kaito. Kaito blinks. He’s got Cooking Mama on.

”I made stuffed peppers!” Ouma cheers. “Nishishi, it’s just like having Toujou-chan around again! It’d be nice not having to worry that I’ll be poisoned by fumes every night!” He closes the device and slides the stylus back into the side. “Or that you’ll catch fire without a hairnet. Say, what’s happening?”

”What the fuck?” Kaito says. “The hell are you going on about with fumes? You hardly ever fucking come in here when I’m cooking.” He frowns back at his makeshift board/plate. “And if you’re just gonna stand around pretending to cook, the least you could do is actually fucking help for once.”

Ouma takes a step close to peer around his shoulder at his knife and cabbage and amateur setup. He watches Kaito cut for a moment, then makes a dismissive sound.

”Nah, I don’t think so. Looks boring. Don’t put your dick in that thing!”

Kaito gets the joke so immediately that he laughs before he can think and before Ouma can skip away. Ouma pauses to make a confused face at him, and then he carries on.

Kaito proceeds to make a confused face at himself in the window reflection for finding that one funny.

He wakes up early the next morning to head to training, and when he leaves the apartment, nothing seems abnormal. His grandmother texted him a birthday message—and, weirdly enough, he got one from Angie in the middle of the night, too—but that’s the only thing different from any other day. He does his hair, gets ready, gets dressed, and Ouma is still curled up and asleep under a throw blanket on his couch-bed when Kaito closes the door. He’d gotten messages from Shuuichi, Kaede, and Maki last night after their phone call, and some other classmates message him throughout the day and in the evening when he’s walking back to the apartment. He’s smiling at his phone and still typing a response to Kiibo—who’s apparently disappointed that he didn’t get to sing _Happy Birthday_ to Kaito this year—when he unlocks the door, and when he steps inside, the first thing he notices is the cupcake and card propped up on the living room table where Ouma usually is.

Kaito pauses in the entryway and looks at them for a moment. The cupcake has a lit candle in it.

What the hell?

He kicks the door shut behind him, then locks his phone screen and slips it in his pocket before taking some steps closer to approach the table. He warily picks up the cupcake for inspection; it doesn’t explode on contact, which is good. In fact, it looks...relatively normal, and the wax is hardly dripping down the candle side at all. It must’ve been lit recently. Okay, that’s _not_ good. That’s fucking sketchy. He blows it out and sets it back down to focus on the card.

It’s blue, and all it has on it is a large, striped number 1 surrounded by decorative stars. When Kaito picks it up, a folded paper falls out. He glances down, back up, down again, then thinks: fuck it. He slides the paper back to himself with his shoe, and he’s still standing on it when he opens the inside of the card to read:

_For this special boy on your special day,_

_I’m hoping that you will have lots of fun._

_Enjoy all the blessings that that get sent your way,_

_You deserve it! You’re finally one!_

And under that, in a scrawl:

**get fucked, idiot ! ! ! — ♡**

”What the fuck,” Kaito says aloud. “Ouma!”

The fucker’s gotta be somewhere. Kaito leans down to pick up the paper at his feet before searching; when he unfolds the whole thing, there’s only an image of himself printed on the inside. But _bald_. And nothing else. Just him, normally, but photoshopped to have no hair. And it’s a _good_ fucking photoshop.

”What the fuck?” Kaito repeats. He recognizes this picture of himself—it’s cropped from a group shot he has in his room. “Ouma!” Kaito yells again, throwing the sheet onto the table. “You went in my fucking room!? For _that!?_ What the hell even was it!?” He looks under the table impulsively—dumb, alright—then leans into the kitchen. Nothing.

”You goddamn freak, come out here already!”

There’s nothing on the balcony, nothing in the bathroom or hall closet—that’s when Kaito notices the door to his bedroom is slightly ajar.

”Oh, fucking hell,” he says, turning to force it open. “Get the fuck out of my—!”

Whipped cream is in his face in a second. Kaito hardly processes what’s happening; he trips backwards into the wall from the force, then tears the—pie tin?—off of himself and throws it to the ground. He’s wiping his eyes clean when the airhorn blasts.

”Fuck!” Kaito cries, cringing and reaching to cover his ears. It lasts a couple seconds, then he hears the can clatter off his floor, and then the sound of a party horn replaces it. Kaito gets his eyes cleared entirely and looks up just in time to watch Ouma, in a party hat, grab a different bottle off the floor next to him, and then he’s being covered in silly string.

”Hey! _Hey!_ You _fucker_ —cut that out!” Kaito yells, scrambling up and trying to block the assault with his hands. Ouma keeps blasting the high whine of the party horn, and by the time Kaito rips the spray bottle from his hand, it’s nearly empty. He throws it to the floor, turns to Ouma in disbelief, then gets a handful of confetti on top of him that the kid pulls from his pants pocket.

Kaito blinks at him through the mess on his face.

Ouma blows the party horn once more, then takes it from his mouth and waves his hands. “Happy first birthday, Momota-chan! You’re finally one!”

It’s déjà vu, but somehow even worse.

And there’s no shock this time.

Kaito has Ouma against the wall quicker than Ouma jumped him, and Ouma screeches when he’s lifted from his feet. His hands go right to the neck of his straitjacket where Kaito is holding him.

”Wait! _Wait!_ This is a big misunder—“

”You fucking _nutcase!_ ” Kaito shouts at him. “What the hell is the matter with you!?”

“Put me down! Hey! Momota-chan, you know what’s— _ew_ , you’re getting pie on my hat! Stop it!”

Kaito sets Ouma down just so he can get a hand on his face and wipe the rest of the monstrosity off of him. He shakes his hand out and groans.

”Fucking hell, what even is this!?”

”I _just_ said it was pie, you idiot!” Ouma responds. Kaito snaps his head towards him again. “You’re not pretty enough to be this stupid!”

Kaito gets two hands against Ouma’s front again, and he, in turns, screeches for the second time. “Wait! Wait, for real, I have an explanation!”

”What!?”

”Happy birthday!”

Kaito's about half a second away from smashing Ouma's face into the remnants of the pie when he screams again, shrill. " _Waaait!_ ”

"For fucking _what!?_ "

"Y-Your friends sent you a gift! Momota-chan! P-Put me down! I’m allergic to all pies ever, and if that touches me, I’ll die!”

The last part of his rambling goes over Kaito’s head. He loosens his hold slightly to look at Ouma. “Huh?”

”I’ve always been allergic! Ever since—“

”No! Not that, fucking hell. What do you mean my friends sent me a gift?”

”Saihara-chan sent you a gift! It’s—“

Kaito’s grip tightens again. “Are you lying about shit like that!?”

”No!” Ouma bursts, stepping back to try and push him off. “It’s not a lie! If you’d stop manhandling me for ten seconds, Sasquatch, then I could actually _show_ you the thing!”

Kaito stares into his face, and Ouma stares back; his expressions go from angry, to surprised, to melodramatic pleading. Kaito hisses a breath out and reluctantly releases him after a moment, and Ouma breathes a sigh of relief.

”Jeez, Momota-chan, and I did all of this for your birth—ack! Heeey! I just said that—!”

”Where’s the fucking gift,” Kaito says, waving off the hand he just used to smash pie against the back of Ouma’s head. “And you better not fucking say it was that bullshit you put in your card!”

Ouma’s dismay transforms into delight as he smiles up at Kaito, pausing his attempt to brush food out of his hair with his fingers. “Did you like it, Momota-chan? I put so much effort into perfecting the editing! Well, actually, Angie-chan helped—“

”What the fuck even—“ Kaito pauses to breathe, “ _dammit_ , fucking _Angie_ —okay, what fucking crossed your mind to even make you _think_ of doing shit like that?”

Ouma shrugs. “Figured it’d look better than that whole mess you’ve got going on now! The meringue and whipped cream really help.” When Kaito starts again, Ouma speedily continues, “ _Anyways!_ Momota-chan, follow me for your lesser birthday gift!” He claps and steps around Kaito to take off from the room.

Kaito stands there for a second. Though it’s far from the out-of-body experience that he had the first time Ouma terrorized him in his own fucking bedroom, this is still... _so_ fucking much. Nobody else in the whole goddamn world, Kaito is sure, would go this completely all-out to pull some shit like this. And Ouma, he’s discovered, has the unfortunate tendency to go all-out on everything he does. Nothing he ever saw in school firsthand was as fucking crazy as this just was.

Fuck. Fuck that. He’s roommates with some fucking anomaly. Kaito glares at the pie tin on the floor and kicks it before following after Ouma.

When he walks into the living room from the hall, Ouma has dragged and thrown his duffel bag into the cushions of the couch, and he’s unzipping the top as Kaito steps around to his side. Ouma digs for a few seconds, his head down and buried close to his belongings, pie still tangled in his hair, before he suddenly shoots up with a square box in his hands.

”Ta-da!” he cheers. “Told ya I wasn’t lying, Momota-chan! Nishishi, I’d never lie about something so serious and mushy as this!”

Kaito rolls his eyes—is this why Ouma’s been so pissy about him staying away from his stuff? Damn. He still takes the box from Ouma’s hands as he passes it over; there’s a card taped to the front of it, and he removes it to reveal star-printed gift-wrap with a bow on top.

The white envelope reads _Momota Kaito,_ and it doesn’t take the little music notes scribbled around the script for Kaito to recognize Kaede’s handwriting.

”Wait, holy shit!” he says. “Is this really...?”

”Of course it is! Saihara-chan accosted me before we left,” Ouma chimes in. Kaito’s eyes drift to his. “Aww, don’t look so surprised! He was all strict and serious with me about pulling through with my end of the bargain. Huh, as if I’m untrustworthy or something! What a baseless claim.” He readjusts his hat. “Anyway, are you gonna open it, huh? Huuuh? I’m so excited to see what they pulled together to buy you!”

“This is...” Kaito begins. He sets the box on the table in favor of the card; Ouma goes, “Ugh, how boooring,” as he tears it open, but Kaito’s too absorbed to respond to him. Instead of some shitty 1st birthday card, this one has a rocket on the front and a short inner message encouraging him to reach for the stars, but his eyes are instead drawn to the three separate paragraphs of handwriting lining the insides. Shuuichi, Maki, and Kaede—he’d recognize those if he were blind. He moves to sit on the couch, and Ouma sighs again in exasperation.

”Uuugh, and now you’re being sappy!” he complains. He reaches out to fiddle with the present, and Kaito still doesn’t stop him when he takes a seat next to him and slaps the bow on his leg. He’s busy reading over what his friends have written.

_Happy birthday, Momota. It’s hard to believe you’re 19 already. Time has passed so quickly, but you’ll always be the same annoying guy I’ve always known. That’s a compliment._

_Momota-kun! :) A birthday away from us? I’m so sad to think about it! But, I know this will reach you, so you can pretend like we’re not that far away at all!_

_Happy birthday, Momota-kun! It’s strange to think that when you read this, you’ll be a few cities away. I know all three of us will miss you so much... and I know I speak for all three of us when I write that._

As Kaito is finishing his first read-through of everyone’s full paragraphs, the slightest bit choked up at the words, Ouma moves from kicking his legs and flipping the gift around to scratching at the tape. Kaito shoots him a sudden look, and Ouma’s face falls.

”What?” he says. “You’re all caught up in the boring part, and you won’t even open your present!”

”Just—give me that!” Kaito snaps, pulling the box away from him. Ouma huffs loudly and crosses his arms.

”Jeez, Momota-chan! No need to be so snippy!”

Kaito responds with a frustrated sigh, but he quickly redirects his attention to the gift that he’s holding. Ouma watches raptly as he starts to undo the paper.

”Oh, boy! I hope it’s a bomb!”

”Shut up,” Kaito says.

”Or a restraining order! Do you think that they’d do that?”

”I said, shut up!”

Kaito pulls the torn wrappings together to crumple into a loose ball, and he sets it on the table with Ouma’s card and cupcake before pulling the box up. It has some unique model he’s never seen before printed on the front under the words _Home Planet_.

”Oh, boooo!” Ouma whines, leaning close against Kaito’s shoulder as he inspects it. “It just looks like some stupid space thing! Wow, they really dropped the ball on my birthday this year... It’s like they didn’t even buy this for me!”

”Shut up,” Kaito replies again absentmindedly, flipping the box around to read the back. On the other side, it has a display of the device in motion; when plugged in, it broadcasts colorful celestial bodies from planets to galaxies around the walls of the room, making any area you want into a miniature, portable planetarium.

Any sentimentalism that had been distracting Kaito balks under the excitement that rushes through him. “This is so fucking cool!” he says, holding the box up.

”Ugh, I knew you’d say something dumb like that!” Ouma protests. Kaito looks over when Ouma pulls a piece of silly string from his shoulder, then scoffs and stands up and away from him to talk to his friends as soon as he can. Ouma makes an annoyed sound from the couch, then gets up as well and heads down the hall.

Shuuichi, Maki, and Kaede weren’t able to talk on the phone after all, but they exchange some frantic and emotional text messages regardless. They promise to talk as soon as they all can again, and Kaito doesn’t let any minor disappointment he feels at not being able to personally thank them overpower how grateful he is for friends like them. He reads over their card two more times with a smile on his face, and then their group messages that he’d affectionately greeted with, “You fuckers!!! Kept a secret for that long!?”

Ten minutes later, he’s wrapping up his conversation with both of his grandparents when Ouma walks back from the hall to the kitchen, his hair dripping wet, with the half-crushed pie in his hands. It makes Kaito realize that he’d been too excited to thank his friends to even mention that the kid had gone fucking crazy on him—he’ll definitely have to recount that shit another time—and he quickly finishes the call with his grandparents when Ouma walks back into the living room holding two spoons in his other hand.

Kaito puts his phone down. He pulls another piece of silly string from himself, then raises an eyebrow at Ouma sitting on the couch expectantly.

”Well,” Ouma shrugs, holding a spoon out, “it landed face up, and you didn’t eat my cupcake made out of salt, so.”

It must be the high of happiness and love he feels for his friends still affecting him, because instead of telling Ouma to fuck off, Kaito just laughs. Ouma frowns slightly and retracts the spoon.

”Are you going hysterical?” he asks, his lips pursed. “Since when did you think poison was funny? Jeez, I guess Momota-chan’s cracked after all...”

”Fuck off, kid,” Kaito finally snorts, pushing him aside to take a seat next to him on the couch. Ouma blinks at that, but he does make room for him. Kaito takes the spoon from his hand. “What kind of pie is this?”

”Danger,” Ouma offers, trying a bit of it he gets on his spoon. He grimaces. “Bad.”

Kaito tries it, too. He’s not a huge fan of sweets, but it’s just bitter of a cherry enough to be tolerable. He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not that awful,” he says, going for another piece. “For floor pie.”

”You’re acting weird,” Ouma says, taking a spoonful from the opposite side of the tin. He grimaces again when he bites into it. “I’ll thank the space gang later for making you too teary to kill me!”

Kaito smacks the back of his head, then wipes his hand on his pants to dry it as Ouma huffs at him. “You really broke out your straitjacket for this shit.”

Ouma rolls his eyes, then kicks his legs. ”Guess so!” he answers.

Kaito leaves to shower the mess off of him a few minutes later, and Ouma throws the rest of the pie in the garbage, both of them having decided that they’d subjected themselves to enough. When Kaito finally walks back into his room in clean clothes that night, all traces of confetti and pie filling and airhorns are gone from his floor, as if the whole ordeal were a hallucination instead of reality. It’s another instance, Kaito thinks, of Ouma acting like a fever dream. As he always does.

Ouma’s sitting innocently on the living room couch when Kaito approaches him, and he doesn’t look up from his phone when Kaito glances at him. He sighs, then takes his Home Planet from the table the kid has his feet propped on. Kaito deliberates for a moment, then snags both of the birthday cards as well.

Ouma still doesn’t look up, but he also doesn’t hide the way he smiles at that.

Kaito might smile, too, right before he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> april’s turned into a much longer chronicle than i planned it to be—should be wrapped up by the next chapter, though! and then there’s only...five, more months to go... so much for a summer deadline, hahaha. thanks for reading!
> 
> also, while it may be momota’s birthday in the story chronologically, i just realized it’s ouma’s actual birthday today. fun timing. happy birthday to both these clowns.


End file.
